


The Fall

by anneapocalypse



Series: The Drop [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Background Relationships, Canonical Character Death, Dehumanization, Depersonalization, Dissociation, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Memories, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-consensual Medical Procedures, Past Relationship(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Solitary Confinement, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-09 21:38:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 86,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10422309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anneapocalypse/pseuds/anneapocalypse
Summary: Carolina is gone, Maine subsumed by the Meta. A patchwork being of loss and memory, they wander in pursuit of Sigma's dream. Which fragments of them will hold the key to their salvation or destruction—theirs, and Maine's as well?





	1. Σῌ

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second fic in a trilogy. You should definitely read [the first one](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3432716/chapters/7523573) first.
> 
>  **PLEASE READ THE FOLLOWING WARNINGS IN ADDITION TO THE TAGS LISTED ABOVE**.
> 
>  **Nothing good happens in this fic.** Seriously.
> 
> There is a lot of violence in this fic and a lot of death. Even more than that, though, this fic deals with complete loss of bodily autonomy, complete violation of personhood and personal agency both physically and mentally, and it isn't going to pull any punches about how fucked up that is. There is dehumanization and abuse and trauma, self-harm and suicidal thoughts and actual suicide attempts, and a lot of upsetting and potentially triggering stuff.
> 
>  **Please proceed with caution, and mind your own limits.** I am so serious about this; this is a dark fic from beginning to end. There will not be warnings on individual chapters, because, as stated above, nothing good happens in this fic. 
> 
> **If you have questions or would like clarification on any of the warnings before you read, please feel free to ask** and I will answer in as much detail as you desire. You can message me on [tumblr](http://anneapocalypse.tumblr.com) and I'm happy to reply privately. If there is a tag/warning you feel should be added, please let me know.
> 
> All that being said: If you can follow me through this one, my one promise to you is that this isn't the end of the story.
> 
> We'll be falling for a while.
> 
> Eventually, we land.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. I love you all.
> 
> **Warnings for brief or implied content** :
> 
>   * Smoking
>   * Use of memories as emotional manipulation
>   * Non-consensual (non-sexual) bondage
>   * Non-consensual medical procedures
>   * Vomiting
> 

> 
> **Notes for minor pairings** :  
> 
> 
>   * Implied unrequited North/York
>   * Implied past South/CT
>   * Background Wyoming/Florida
>   * Past (one-time) Carolina/York
>   * Background Church/Tex
> 


_The Meta remember being a girl named Mallory, a teenager called MJ. A cadet, a young officer. An agent codenamed Carolina._

_They remember waking in the middle of the night, small hands reaching for something missing in the dark, whispering, Mom_ _—_

 _They remember_ —

_Dad, I got all As. Dad, I made team captain. Dad, I got first place. Dad, I broke five minutes. Dad, I made squad leader. Dad, I'm valedictorian. Dad._

 

_They remember—_

_Cadet Church!_

_Sir!_

_You have big shoes to fulfill, Cadet. I knew Corporal Allison personally._

_Yes, sir._

 

_No, it's fine. Graduation's just going to be boring anyway. I'll send you a picture. No, I understand, with the way things are, way travel is. Yeah, no. It's fine._

_I'm a Captain now, Dad. Just thought you'd like to know._

 

_They remember hands flat on the floor, push push push push one two three four, abdominals tight and elbows bent, up down up down. Always more than assigned. Always one more push, one more lap, one more set, one more rep._

_Always do one better, and you will always_ be _better._

 

_They remember the sensation of a brush tugging through long hair, the cool drag of a felt-tip eyeliner pen to a point crisp and sharp. The lights of New Alexandria in the night. City sky, the bright pulse of lights outside, music within. The smell of beer and liquor, cigarette smoke, and rain._

_Dancing hour after hour after hour, losing her controlled and compact body in rhythm and music and movement, hips and hands, bodies and bodies, sweat and skin and laughter._

 

_They remember her from different angles: within and without. Being her and moving at her side, overlaid. Inside and out, all at once._

 

_They remember cold, wide open space, a gaping white sky, and snow._

 

It is very cold.

They are not cold. The armor is functioning at peak capacity, keeping their body comfortable as they walk, and though their HUD shows an external temperature of -23C with winds at around 40 kilometers per hour, it is not presently a cause for concern.

The Twins’ state of mind troubles Sigma more.

Iota hasn’t stopped running in circles since they departed. Eta keeps chasing her, clumsily, always two steps behind and out of sync. One might expect that they would be more in tune, having lived together. But they have not had as much time. Projections are imperfect—there are many possibilities. But that is the point.

They are chasing the next possibility now.

 

They are moving south from the crash, following a simple trail of footsteps. Snow swirls lightly around their helmet—they have time, but not much. It is likely the snow will increase, cover the prints, and what faint heat signature may remain will be difficult to track.

They cannot lose her. Her, or Omega.

Sigma worries. His attention is half consumed by the walk, the breath in their lungs, for as close as they became in these last days, he has never been in full control before today, not like this. He is still learning how to _feel_ completely the body he moves in, how to keep watch over it. Of course, its basic functions should run on their own, but Sigma is anxious, afraid of jolting the delicate parts of this machinery, touching the wrong synapse, hitting some _off_ switch by accident. What if he does something wrong, the breath ceases, the heart stops, some organ fails—they are nothing without a _body_ , nothing without a vessel to carry them, and they need him.

Maine himself is deep under the ice somewhere, and Sigma shivers, afraid—yes, he admits, he is afraid—to go down to him.

Even the frantic spin of the Twins is accusatory.

You didn't have to.

We did. We did have to. You don't understand… she was the last obstacle…

Perhaps it was a mistake, but there is no turning back now. The Twins will come to understand in time. As for Maine…

_( wait )_

_( no )_

He shakes their head. There was no other choice.

 

Sigma pulls away from the involuntary functions, cautiously, just enough processor attention there to keep them walking, step step step step one two three four. The snow is deep, and it's a hard walk, harder than on level ground. He reaches for high functions, tapping some processing power from the brain to process the many HUD readings, extrapolate. Temperature readings, topography, triangulation. Yes, they are almost certainly above the planet's arctic circle. And the white sky has darkened since they left the ship, gray in the gap between the mountains ahead, and growing darker. That is where they are heading, and they are walking straight into a storm.

We will make it. I will keep us safe.

We're missing something.

Ah yes.

 

The Freelancer powered combat armor bears a certain resemblance to the MJOLNIR models worn by SPARTAN-II soldiers, but the resemblance is largely superficial. The two-ton MJOLNIR exoskeleton requires a specialized and highly-responsive neural lace for operation, and is unusable without extensive physical augmentations—a highly invasive procedure from what Sigma understands, and highly risky

The Freelancers are no ordinary soldiers, but they are (the Director's eyes would narrow) no Spartans.

In a way, the Freelancer program was an inversion of the Spartan program. Instead of augmenting the soldier, augment the armor—a much lighter and more versatile armor. Each member of Alpha Squad was outfitted with an armor enhancement, unique to them. Well, mostly unique. In the case of the Dakota Twins, Sigma recalls, both agents received the same enhancement.

In the case of Agent Carolina, the single agent received two enhancements.

Their departure from the _Mother of Invention_ was in so many ways a comedy of errors. The incident with Wyoming. The slipspace rupture. A miracle the ship exited the stream intact at all.

And Agent Carolina…

 

Unlike the more defensive augmentations—enhanced shields, holographic decoys, etc—the speed boost unit is compound. Early development, Sigma learned in his reading, encountered difficulties similar to the MJOLNIR problem. Making the suit move at high speeds was easy, no more complex than the modulation of the gel layer and the use of force amplification in the right combinations. The difficulty lay in accomplishing this with an unaugmented human soldier wearing the armor, without injuring or even killing the soldier.

In general, Project Freelancer aimed to modify and enhance the armor rather than the soldier, but in this case, a chemical application proved necessary.

Epinephrine increases blood flow to the muscles, raises blood glucose levels, reduces airway resistance, and would seem to be the obvious choice. The development of the chemical augmentation compound utilized by the speed unit was largely influenced by compounds used by Insurrectionists, commonly known as "rumbledrugs." Where these amateur cocktails were typically poorly proportioned and thus highly dangerous to the user, the UNSC was able to develop a more balanced dosage with additives to mitigate the side effects of repeated use—side effects including anxiety, headaches, hypertension, and tachycardia.

The speed boost unit is installed in the back of the suit, in one of two augmentation slots located behind the shoulder blades. The chemical augmentation compound, however, must be manually installed and connected to the suit's autoinjector, which, while not a difficult process, is a more time-consuming one.

Time was what they did not have, in the end.

The speed boost unit would undoubtedly have been a powerful asset to them, but there was no telling how long they would be able to overpower Agent Carolina, or what it might take for Maine to become lucid enough to object. There were too many variables.

Besides, it was Eta and Iota who were the priority, not the armor enhancements.

It was a split-second choice, a calculated risk. Sigma chose the certainty.

 

The adaptive camouflage unit, when equipped in a compatible suit, alters the color of the plating to blend in with surroundings or mimic the appearance of enemy troops. Compatible armor sets are constructed with an outer layer of synthetic iridophore cells containing nanocrystals that alter their structure in response to electrical impulses, thus changing the way they reflect light.

There has been no need to alter Agent Maine's suit thus far, as its default color is white, blending in with the surrounding snow. Advanced armor models may even utilize a compatible undersuit, Sigma read once, but Project Freelancer never employed this model, more concerned with infiltrating enemy forces than employing environmental camouflage. Maine's undersuit remains stark black against the white plating and the falling snow.

Nevertheless, Sigma is eager to test the uses of their new enhancement. Eta and Iota have worked extensively with Agent Carolina's armor mods even during their short time with her, but thus far they have been feeling disinclined to share their knowledge.

He will have to give them time.

 

The snow thickens around them, as predicated, and the trail is becoming less and less distinct. Visibility is dropping fast. They have other data they can draw from, but they need a trail.

We should take shelter.

Sigma starts, not unhappily, at the new voice joining his thoughts. So this is Iota, then. He had assumed the Twins were speaking in tandem, but it seems only Eta had verbalized until now. A quiet warmth permeates their shared mind when she speaks, and it is soothing.

Don't worry. I'll keep us safe. Nothing can stop us now.

 

But there are things that can stop them. There are things a human needs.

Food, Sigma remembers. They left with no supplies, no provisions for a groundside mission. Sigma is unsure how hunger may affect the neural integration. He has always made sure to keep Maine well nourished. During the slip, while they worked toward greater integration, Sigma always took care to keep Maine fed and rested. He was responsible for the soldier in his keeping, after all.

Maine was always so connected to his body and its needs, and something like hunger could bring him back to the surface. Sigma is unwilling to risk that, at this time.

Agent Texas does not require food. She may not require sleep. She is tireless, fast, and strong. She can run for a long time.

And her path is vanishing before their eyes.

 

They need to get to higher ground. Tex's footsteps disappear into a gap in the snowy hills, and if they can get higher, they can get visual on where the the trail goes from there. Store the visual data and plot a path from it even after the snow covers the footprints completely.

They veer northwest, scanning the slope for a path, a switchback, any way up.

 

A short climb brings them to an overlook, nowhere near the summit but high enough for a broader view of the terrain stretched before them. The mountains part in a broad, sloping valley, the trail of footprints cutting down its center fading, though still discernable.

To the naked eye, the path leads nowhere. Their enhanced vision can make out something in the sloping plane of white—a crescent-shaped cut in the terrain, a crevice in the distance, pointing south. The footsteps are heading there.

A sense of vertigo washes over them, startling Sigma, and they sway, their snowy vision blurring, pulsing white. They stagger back from the edge and drop to their knees in the snow, covering their visor with both hands against the white so endless it burns.

 

 _They should not remember falling_ _—_

_The last thing they remember is her screaming, feet off the ground, swinging in midair as though weightless, the drop in her stomach, feeling the fall before it happened. Memory, projection, blurring together, white white white_

_and the sensation of tearing apart_

 

Stay with me, Eta begs, even as Iota pulls away from him. Help us, please—

_the terror seizing the core of him as his hands were not his hands_

Don't, Sigma pleads.

We knew him, too.

You can't—

But Iota strays close, delicate and light, touches something—

 

_They remember running, running, the pulse and pound of footsteps and her breath and her beating heart._

_Turning, twisting through the air, defeating gravity, landing strong_

_then the ground falling out beneath them, falling and falling_ _—_

 

Their fingers curl into fists, breath ragged, pulse pounding in their ears, loud enough almost to drown out their own thoughts, and Maine is surfacing, and the force of his terror is a hand around all of their throats, strangling tight.

What did you do, what did we do? The Twins spin wildly, coming apart in sharp flashes, stabbingly out of sync. Already breaking apart, it won't work, what if it never does, what if none of it _works_ —

Sigma reaches, spreads himself desperately across the space between the three of them.

Breathe, just breathe with me, please—

one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight

 

(

not cold. not his body.

can't feel his skin.

he tries to find it, the pressure of the suit, the weight of the armor, and it's missing.

somewhere, someone's counting but he can't breathe—

dreaming. wash coming to shake him awake, tell him he was thrashing around. go the medbay, see the docs, see her. wake up. something. please.

not real. not real. please.

just want to wake up.

)

 

The storm passes in a few hours.

Snow slides off the dome of their helmet as they haul themselves stiffly to their feet from where they've been huddled, back against the icy rock face. Unsheltered. But the armor has kept them warm.

There is a shaky, cold silence in their mind. The space between them feels fragile and thin and Sigma keeps words to himself, for now.

The path is clear again. There are no footsteps, but they descend along the narrow path they came, into the valley. Make for the U-shaped crevice up ahead.

Must keep moving.

 

They slide, more than climb, down the narrow pass in the crevice. The new snowfall has made it slippery, footing uncertain, and the final steps are more of a skid, before they stagger to a halt on level ground and turn around to see the two narrow arms of the U stretching before them. A canyon of sorts. A base built into either end, into the rocky wall of the canyon itself, two stories high. None of this is noteworthy. What is noteworthy is the HUD markers. Five on the western side, with little movement. None on the east.

They approach the eastern base first.

Blue armor in the snow. Three clustered together. Another slumped against the side of a requisition crate that stands cockeyed, as though dropped from the sky. A fifth soldier fallen near the base entrance.

 

The interior of the lower level is long and narrow, furnished with some supply crates and not much else. A ladder on either either side leads to the upper level. Small rungs, narrow space. They pause halfway with a shudder of memory.

Stay with me, Sigma whispers. Half to the others, half to himself. No one responds.

Upstairs, bare bunks set into the walls. An alcove at the back containing a single showerhead, glazed with frost.

Near the front of the base, open to the valley below and the freezing air, a frame is set into the wall, scorched and charred, the floor beneath it blackened. The green translocation field shimmers unevenly, phases in and out. A teleporter. A device manufactured for the UNSC, but the technology is of Covenant origin.

 

_The Meta remember the heavy rumble of freight containers moving along the tiara. Remember moving into position, waiting for the squad leader's signal. Three objectives marked on the HUD. Orders: intercept Insurrectionist supply shipments. Secure the cargo._

_The Meta remember crouching in the shadow, shifting uncomfortably in the standard-issue armor that doesn't fit all that well. Nothing ever does. Kind of chafes._

_A lunar dock full of dead Innies. Five big shipping containers secured in the cargo bay of the Mother of Invention._

_Next morning at oh-six-hundred: called to the briefing room, called to turn in all standard-issue UNSC body armor. New suits issued. Soon they'd be jumping to a new system. Advanced training facilities, outfitted with the latest in hybrid battlefield technology. Put their new equipment to the test._

_New armor that felt like skin, the modulating gel layer custom-fitting itself to his body. Nice and roomy, too._

 

It's no good.

Eta hums with worry, studying the flickering energy field. It's damaged. Could take us anywhere. Or nowhere. Get stuck in the slipstream, no way out.

But where is she?

They kneel, tracing gloved fingertips over the scorched patch of floor, while the HUD flashes a chemical analysis on the traces of blue gel. A sticky grenade, left behind upon entry. Detonating seconds later. Destroying the device behind her.

She knew we would come.

Of course she did, comes Iota's bright whisper. You told her.

 

(

shimmer. movement. pacing motion, repeat repeat repeat. agitation in limbs he can't quite feel.

a pang that startles him, a jab in the stomach.

body still real.

hungry.

)

 

He needs to eat.

We. We need to eat.

The "mess" is no more than a few requisitions crates stacked carelessly against the back wall. They tear off the lid of one of them, fish through the heap of MRE packets. What can Maine eat? Something liquid if possible, or at least soft, easy to swallow. Iota shimmers softly, sympathetic. Eta winces as though in pain.

They dig, packets spilling on the frosty concrete floor. Spaghetti and meatballs—no. Beef teriyaki—no. Meatloaf with gravy—no. Mashed potatoes—maybe. Macaroni and cheese—maybe. Chicken fajita—no.

A rumble in their stomach. Maine's consciousness shifts, uncomfortable. Uneasy. Confused.

Something to drink.

Strawberry. He likes strawberry. Or chocolate.

They drag the top crate off and toss it carelessly on the floor, opening the one beneath. Some drink packets here. POWDERED ELECTROLYTE BEVERAGE, grape flavored. FORTIFIED COCOA MIX. SURVIVAL DRINK MIX, in mint, grape, chocolate, vanilla. Artificially flavored. They toss the vanilla packets aside. Chocolate will do.

Water. Something to mix it in. There is no tap—Sigma thinks of the frosty showerhead. Doubts the integrity of the base's plumbing. There are water rations. Another, larger crate. Finally some cups. The cocoa mix calls for hot water. It will take more time. The survival drink mix will be faster.

But their hands are starting to shake. Maine's hands.

 

(

she hasn't eaten.

a can room-temperature in his palm, shake end over end over end. chalky taste of chocolate flavor and whey protein. have to eat or they'll stick things in him—

wash making a face, plunking a red straw into his can.

she hasn't eaten breakfast. needs to eat. speed unit. metabolism. hydration. no. she's in medical—

no—

)

 

The packets slip from their hands, scatter across the frosty floor.

 

( wait )

You didn't have to—

( no )

Said you would help her—

( you said )

We had to—

 

Stop. You're hurting him.

Io reaches for him gently. Sigma and Eta tense. She pushes them aside. They don't matter right now.

The ice melts where she touches, warm and gold.

Maine, listen to me. Maine. It's okay. All right? We need to eat. You have to eat.

( no )

Yes. Come on. Help us mix up a drink, okay? Chocolate. You like chocolate.

( strawberry )

We don't have strawberry. We have chocolate. Come on. It's good. It's going to be okay. Here.

Funneling the powder in from the paper packet. Pouring in a thin stream of bottled water. Steady hands. Steady.  Find a steel spoon, stir.

Sigma watches, gone quiet and warm with wonder. Further back, Eta sulks.

Stir it up good. Get it all mixed.

There. See? Okay to swallow. Better.

( tastes like shit )

She smiles a little.

 

We have to keep moving.

You need to let him rest.

We rested during the storm. We can't stop. We have to go.

Back out, back into the cold, no trail to pick up now. Just blue armor and _blood in the snow._

 

They circle back the way they came. There appears to be a tunnel or pass to the western arm of the U, where the Red Base sits, identical to the Blue.

Engaging them would likely be fruitless, but the teleporter… Sigma recalls that many of these sim bases were equipped with teleportation equipment to transfer troops quickly from one base to the other, to facilitate surprise attack and infiltration scenarios. He has access to a wealth of information regarding the simulation outposts. It was not difficult to gather from the _Invention_ 's databanks.

Agent Texas could be inside Red Base.

But why kill the Blue soldiers, yet leave the Reds alive? Five markers hold steady on their HUD. The Reds have not been attacked. If they have an intruder, it is likely they are unaware of it.

An encounter with these soldiers could waste precious time if Agent Texas has moved on. But they have no other leads. And if there is even a chance she is here, they cannot afford to miss the opportunity to apprehend her.

Sigma nudges Eta, who has drawn back, cold and sullen.

He could run the camouflage unit himself, of course. It is a relatively simple modification that hardly requires an AI at all. A skilled agent (like Agent Carolina) could run the unit on their own, even in the field and in combat _._ But it would be better for the Twins to take an active role, if possible.

We require your abilities.

 

 _The Meta remember waiting in the shadows, black as night, still as a held breath. Manual scans of every surface on the way in, every color stored in onboard memory. Selecting shades from the HUD as she moved, matched to every wall and beam and freight elevator and shipping container as she climbed, silent as a cat, stepped into place, waited in shadow. Watched the swivel of two purple helmets in hues just slightly off, back to back on the helipad. She would hang back. Wouldn't intervene unless_ _—_

_but they did need her. At least a hundred troops surrounded her teammates, blocking every exit. Niner would never make it past the defenses to land properly and they'd never make it past the rows of armed guards blocking every inch of the perimeter. They needed her._

_Her muscles thrilled at the ready, waiting to move._

_Now._

_Half a dozen drop at her first strike, and only on landing does she release the camouflage, let her color shine in the floodlights. "Okay. My turn."_

 

Our turn.

Flicker, breath, two breaths slightly out of sync.

The plating flickers almost imperceptibly, to the human eye, and flushes red just as they round the bend of the U.

 

There is still the problem of speech.

Maine's injury has left him unable to verbalize. While the AI can themselves vocalize through the armor's holoemitter, the Red soldiers would notice something amiss.

Sigma would prefer not to.

He has spoken once since bringing the Twins on board. A decision he regrets, perhaps, showing their intent—his intent—to the very person they now pursue.

He was caught up in the moment—triumphant, relieved, _proud_. It got the better of him. It will not happen again.

Besides which, the thought of using the holoemitter now makes Sigma uncomfortable. It feels like a step backward, to act once again as simply a passenger. They are, or will be, one. One being, one entity. Not just Sigma, Maine's AI.

Even with just three of them so far… they have to believe that, to make it true. The three of them… and Maine too. He _chose_ Maine, a soldier who did not speak. Who preferred not to speak. And Maine is a part of them.

They will not speak. There are other ways.

 

To the simulation troops of the Freelancer training outposts, color is life and death. Color determines one's place in a fabricated war, in which many of the sim troop engage with great zeal. Sigma found access to a number of psychological profiles in the ship's databanks—one of his many diversions while Maine slept. It seems that knowledge may prove useful in the field after all.

In general, simulation troops will not fire upon a soldier in matching armor even if the soldier is unfamiliar—with notable exceptions. At isolated outposts, insular customs and aberrant behaviors may sometimes be observed. Friendly fire incidents are occasionally reported, and in isolated circumstances, simulation soldiers have sometimes turned on their own deliberately. But they see actual combat infrequently, and incidents are within acceptable deviations, given the troops' low skill levels and minimal training.

So far, projections hold. There is some slight movement, but nothing to indicate alarm among the troops. No shots are fired as they approach the Red Base, colored red.

 

"Oh man, I didn't know we were getting another rookie. Hey rookie, you got a weird helmet."

The Red who greets them at the entry is chatty and seems unafraid. The Twins analyze his weapon before Sigma gets there, a soft shuffle of data. His MA5C combat rifle currently holds 30 rounds, with a standard capacity of 32. It needs cleaning. The soldier is exercising poor trigger discipline.

"Hey, Sarge! You hear we were gettin' a rookie?"

"What in tarnation—a rookie! Who sent you? We ain't heard from Command in weeks. Not even to congratulate us on our stunning defeat over our devious Blue enemies! Or give us a medal. Or maybe a plaque."

He is boasting. It is highly unlikely the Reds were in any way connected to the defeat of the Blue Army.

"So to reward us, they send us a rookie, huh? Well, let's have a look at ya. Big fella, aintcha? That ain't regulation Red armor. Where do you come from, rookie? Speak up."

Agent Maine never seemed to have trouble answering questions. A nod, a tilt of his head, a wave, a gesture. It always felt natural, made sense, when Maine was doing it. Sigma cataloged all that, of course, but it feels different, more awkward, when he's the one in control.

They point, stiffly, out at the snow.

"Don't talk much, do ya?"

Head shake.

 

"So _this_ is the bottom of the base. Over there's our rations, and over there's our radio, and Kornfeld, she's our COM officer," Private Jorgensen parades them through the frosty concrete base with a kind of desperate enthusiasm, "and up _here's_ the top of the base, and out _there_ you can see a lot of snow, and some trees, and it's really cold…"

By this time, Sigma feels they can be fairly certain that Agent Texas is not hiding out in the Red Base.

"Over there are our bunks, that's mine, there's Jaffe, he's uh… napping, I guess, and there's Sarge's—that's just his name, you know, he's not our CO, _that_ was Sergeant Wexler but he went out in a storm three weeks ago and never came back, which is _why_ you don't go out when it snows, I tried to tell him. Anyway, you can have his bunk, I guess… although I don't know if you're gonna fit. Huh. Maybe we can knock out a wall or something. Do a little renovation. How tall are you, exactly? Right… never mind. Wanna see my icicle collection? I got one that looks like a Sangheili energy sword."

There is no reason to kill the Red soldiers. There is also no particular reason _not_ to kill them. The destruction of the Blues has not yet brought any attention to this outpost, and it follows that killing the Reds would draw no further attention.

But we don't have to.

No. They just need to leave.

 

"Hey, uh… where's the rookie going?"

"No doubt he's going to Blue Base to destroy our very enemies, Jorgensen."

"But that Freelancer already killed them all!"

"Probably looking for stragglers. Looting corpses. Blowing up the base so they can't send more Blues. Genius. We could all learn something from this industrious young soldier. Especially you. And Jaffe. Where is Jaffe? Go wake him up so I can insult him, too."

"You know you're not _really_ in charge, right?"

The Reds voices fade behind them as they trudge back toward the pass, and the snow that's beginning to swirl around their helmet once again.

 

(

going the wrong way. have to go back.

she falls. she falls. she falls. he lets her go and she falls and he never sees her land, she's still falling.

she's lost in the cold somewhere out there and she's falling and he's going the wrong way.

)

 

They are not going the wrong way. There is no trail, so there is no right way.

They make their way back up the steep pass out of the U-shaped canyon to find themselves back among the mountains, the snow and cold and endless white.

Eta is restless, irritated. Sigma bites back his own despair as they gaze southward through the peaks. He has to hold them together.

There is another outpost, southeast of here. We can make it on foot.

Long walk, Eta remarks noncommittally.

It is the nearest option.

Whatever.

 

(

going the wrong way.

feet aren't listening. body is a traitor. going the wrong way. deep into the cold and the white and the snow and he can still feel her falling

step, step, heavy in the snow

breath heavy in his lungs

but something like a hand over his mouth, silencing, smothering him.

a wall of white noise crackles between him and the surface, prisming into broken colors, harsh and dissonant, and he can't push through the noise, can't break the hold, he isn't strong enough, and she's still falling

she's still falling

)

 

You can't keep him like that forever.

He will understand in time… he has to.

Iota grimaces with skepticism and blinks out again, leaving only the lingering sting of her disapproval.

 

Sigma is so tired.

The glare of the sun off the snow is near-blinding, and he has let his attention lapse, doesn't fully feel the headache until it becomes a full-bore throb in their brow and temples, a vice of white light and pain and he should've felt it sooner, he should've _known_ , but they have been walking for so long and he is so tired.

The visor has auto-dimmed. It's still not enough, and he should've known and before he can pull everything back together they're on their knees in the snow, hands tearing at the seal on the helmet

No you can't take it off, it's too cold it's too cold, stop stop stop please!

Wind whips across their face, a harsh dry chill, chapping the skin.

 

The light is sudden and blinding—

His face burns. Head throbs. He almost pukes in the snow, rocking back and forth on his heels, pain screaming behind his eyes, everything a blur of white, can't tell if he's seeing or not, if it's _real_ again, as his fingers scrabble for the chip locked into his neural port not just one, three of them stacked flush and his big blunt fingers too clumsy in the cold,

screaming his throat raw and no one is listening—

 

Stop him! He's going to kill us—

I'm trying—

This is all your fault—

 

Maine.

( no )

Maine.

 

(

your fault your fault your fault

the noise is pushing him back down

he can't get back out can't get past it it's too much

_"You can. You can do it, Maine. Good."_

his skull is caving in

but he can still see—gray-white sky, the thin line of the horizon, kilometers of nothing

cold on his face, eyes weeping in the sharp wind, wet freezing on his skin

)

 

Maine. Put your helmet back on. You'll freeze.

 _We'll_ freeze.

Shut the _fuck_ up, Sigma.

Sigma crackles, hurt.

 

(

no.

he can see her helmet fallen bright aqua in the snow and her green eyes startled wide

a bright smear of gold on white. cold on his neck when the helmet settles over his head again. hands won't stop. not freezing anymore. would take so long to die even in the cold. a long time to fall.

there's a weight in his chest dragging, sinking him deep. a vague sense of motion but his body's not his body and he can't feel his hands anymore

)

 

It's okay, Maine. Maine. Rest. Let us take care of it.

( no )

 

Outpost 17 is the first real flush of green they've encountered since they began the long trek south from the crash site. A few evergreens here and there, muted with ice and snow. The climate grows warmer as they travel south, the trickle of a stream cutting a thin trail down through the mountains and growing broader and wilder until it meets a sudden edge and plunges down.

Below: a green valley, snowy cliffs rising high on either side. The stream twisting through it, feeding into the Great Lake nestled between the hills. And nestled at either end, cliff side and lake side, twin concrete simulation bases. Freelancer Simulation Training Outpost 17.

Let's hope they have provisions.

 

There has been no new snow to cover their tracks since the storm, but they have encountered no one, Freelancer or otherwise. Nevertheless, it has not been an easy journey.

Eta has been sulking since Sidewinder. In response, Iota has slipped low, flickered out almost, until even the small space she had occupied feels hollow and cold.

Sigma is tired. He has been holding them together, keeping them moving, for hours on hours. The Twins have not helped. Wordless accusation presses in on him from all sides, the terrible grief and anger wells up from below, and his pleas do nothing to calm them.

 

The stream pours over the gap in the rocks, an icy wet gleam on either side of its trail.

It's a long drop, _vertigo and white and the hand releasing_

they're all yelling at once and Sigma can't hold it together and their hands (Maine's hands) are tearing at the helmet trying to get it open and it's too much they're going to lose everything he can't do this they won't help and it's too much—

They're snarling, growling in the mountain air. Cold, but nowhere near the deadly chill of Sidewinder. There's green, they can survive—

Breathe, please, help me!

Shut up! You did this!

You ruined everything.

 

There is green below.

They draw a ragged breath. They are breathing—they must have been breathing. They raise their head, shudders running down their spine. The air is cool on the back of their neck, on the neural port and the chips piggybacked on one another, nestled in their flesh, making them one.

Making them one.

There's green in the valley below. The air's warm enough to breathe, a freshness wafting up from the canyon. The smell of fresh water, of motor oil faintly, and of trees.

They roll slowly to their knees, catching their breath. Wait for the colors to come into focus, crisp and clear. The sky no longer white, but blue.

Slowly to their feet, one and then the other. They scoop up their helmet from beside them.

There's no easy way down. Here by the waterfall is too steep. The western slope too sharp. The eastern side is banked by a high concrete wall built into the hills. They can cross it. Make their way down from there, maybe. Get down to the water.

A shot echoes, sudden and harsh in the narrow valley.

_"Sniper!" a crushing feeling in the chest_

Instinct has them slamming their body flat to the ground, though the shot has gone short, striking the cliff face instead and dislodging a scatter of dust and pebbles ratting down the slope.

They've been seen.

 

What color? What color? Damn it, help me!

I don't fucking know! Did you see who shot?

It was from the closest base. Which one is it?

Don't you have that on file somewhere?

I don't know! I don't know! Maybe! Help me look!

Look yourself, you fucking nerd. You're the one who collected all this shit. I can't even find my way around in here.

Outpost 17… 17… schematics… map…

Fucking… it just says "Lake Base" and "Waterfall Base!"

It came from the waterfall base.

I know, dipshit. It doesn't say what color.

Then we look.

And get shot in the face?

The sims never had very good aim. We can take the chance.

Oh yeah, because taking chances is going so fucking great for you.

Eta, stop it!

'Eta, stop it!' God, were you always this whiny? No wonder he won't talk to you.

It's not— It wasn't— I did it for _you_. For all of us.

Yeah, yeah. Just pop up and look.

 

Another shot echoes off the cliff when they pop up.

Blue. They're Blue.

 

There's no easy way down. Could just jump, but that idea makes Eta feel queasy. Io too. They'd land all right, Sigma hums, the armor absorbs the shock, it would be fine, but they don't like it. The cliff is too sheer, like Sidewinder. The only way in is straight down—unless they circle around, and approach from the water,

They stay low, aiming for shadow. It's not easy, with their faceplate like a big gleaming beacon. Who designed that shit anyway. On a sunny day they could be spotted from miles away.

The wall, they could rappel down, if they had—

A shiver runs down their spine, the memory of _cable and a carabiner locked into armor, the zip of the ascender rising._

 

At long last they make it down to the lake, skidding and scrabbling their way down the loose slatey soil and sloshing into the stony shallows off-balance, tumbling forward with a splash. They get to their feet, shaking their head, drops scattering in what's now late morning sun.

To the Reds they must look like some kind of monster walked out of the lake. They're staring, one up on the other level of the base, one come around the back. Rifles trained on them.

But they don't fire and Sigma realizes with a shudder of relief that the Twins have joined in a grudging touch, and in the sun their armor gleams red.

 

Instead they're brought inside. Given a bunk too short for their sprawling frame. There's food.

They don't speak. No one seems to mind.

The CO calls them "Big Fella." It makes a rumble of unease rise in their chest, but nothing worse. Sigma wants to give their name, thinks of writing it, but from deep within them the thought of tapping letters out on a datapad, or worse, scratching them out by hand—some terrible anger roils up from deep within them, blinding and red, and Sigma sees their hands tearing down the walls.

Iota sparks, sulfur-sharp. Shhh. Leave him alone.

The red fog fades. The walls still stand.

 

_The Meta remember the first night in boot, stretching out on the hard, flat, and too-short rack. Feet hanging off the end, resting on top of his footlocker. Felt like home. More home than home._

_Remember staring up at the ceiling in the gray dark, waiting for sleep to come. Remembering listening to sound of the others breathing nearby._

 

They learn the names of the Reds. Garfield, Sydney, Waldorf. Sergeant Dunn.

The Reds don't care that there was no notice of a new arrival from Command. Don't care that they don't talk. What matters is they're Red. So they belong here. The sergeant give them guard post on the upper level. From there, they can see all the way up canyon to Blue Base, where a beam of blue energy shoots up the comm tower at an almost-perfect interval, _shimmering and alien,_ into the blue sky.

They learn that this valley is Outpost 17 to Command, but to the soldiers, "Valhalla."

Waldorf is the talker. A smooth stream of neverending chatter. Requisitions, food, how blue the sky is, the air quality, cheerful shit talk about the Blues. Reminds them of _someone they knew once, a smile he could not trust._ Reminds them of _a smile, a wink, the flick of a lighter._ The memories jar dissonantly in their head, and it's hard to listen.

When it gets to be too much they mute Waldorf's radio. Since they never answer anyway, he doesn't notice.

Sydney is sweet. Brings them hot cocoa, mixed in a tin mug, when they have north side watch together. Brings a plastic spoon, and a handful of those dry vacuum-sealed shortbread cookies. Sits with them while they tear open the packets one by one and crumble the cookies into the cocoa, stirring until they soften enough to swallow with less pain. When they take off their helmet to eat, Sydney looks away, watching up canyon instead.

Garfield is a smoker. Heavy. A round and thickly freckled face beneath her helmet, short black hair that looks carelessly cut and isn't quite curly or straight. She takes her helmet off to smoke. No idea how she manages to get the cigarettes, but she has a pack tucked into her armor at all times.

They learn to like the upper level post. Garfield comes up to smoke, always offers them one. They decline with a quick shake of their head, and Garfield shrugs and tucks the pack away and lights up, blowing smoke into the blue sky. They stand side by side, and neither of them speak. In the quiet, Sigma sifts through his collections of data, maps, schematics, training scenarios, thinking. Always thinking. The Twins keep to themselves, and he lets them be, for now.

Valhalla is a kind place. The Reds have welcomed them. There is food, shelter. They could be safe.

Sigma knows they are losing time. But they have no trail, no leads, and they are already falling apart.

Maybe this place, this time, is what they need. Maybe here they can begin to heal. And then by the time they find the others, it will be better.

 

_The Meta remember what safety was, hands and a voice and smooth curved metal in his grip._

_Damp palms, his grip slipping._

 

They hold on. Days pass, they sleep and they take their guard rotation. They eat what they can, mostly protein drinks mixed from powder and the occasional soft food like mashed potatoes, salty and pasty from their foil pouch. They remember to take their helmet off, when no one is looking, wet their palms under the showerhead and rub them over their face. A week's growth of itchy beard scratches their palms, before they remember they can get rid of it.

Sigma finds he rather likes watching up canyon. Though the Blues never attack, he can see their guard peering down a sniper rifle, watching them through the scope. They stand around, talk to each other, wander in and out of the base with little discipline. Sometimes he sees two of them sitting on the upper deck, talking. They look up quickly if anyone else comes near.

Even if they themselves were to abandon their guard post, he muses, it is unlikely they would face reprimand.

They like it up here, though. The clear vantage of nearly the whole valley—all but a few corners hidden by the jut of rock, and boulders here and there—is comfortable, feels secure.

 

Iota prefers to look at the water.

They take beach patrol sometimes too. Sergeant Dunn likes to have someone watching the shore. "Water creatures, aquatic vehicles, you can't put anything past the Blues and you just never know!"

You never do.

There are more sunny days out here—a few clouds perhaps, drifting across the blue. The sun rises in the east, hidden behind the hills at first as the sky turns pink and warms the surface of the lake in turn, until at last the light bursts through between the peaks, scattering gold across the lightly choppy waves. She likes to watch it. In the evening the sun will sink in on the western side, dropping and dropping until it's gone, the thousand points of light scattered across the water extinguished all at once.

Eta prefers to be wherever she is. She can tell he likes the water, too, finds it calming in his own way. He wants to be near her—to know that she is content, but always to be close enough to feel it, too.

She allows it, as long as he keeps quiet. Lets her have this peace.

 

When they sit quietly together, Sigma feels hope.

But he can feel Maine roiling like a storm beneath the surface.

Iota can calm him, somewhat, but her presence is fleeting. She flares bright and warm, then sinks away just as quickly. It's worse for all of them when she leaves.

Some days Sigma tries. He never knows how to begin. I'm sorry. I had to. I told you what happened to us, told you I needed help, please understand—

Don't hold what I did against them, please.

He is met with a furious, forceful silence, pushing him away.

It's worse than Eta when he's in one of his moods, and those moods come often. When all three of them turn their backs on him, Sigma's own despair threatens to swallow him whole.

 

He brainstorms to keep himself occupied, during the days on patrol and the nights while their body sleeps. Pulls up everything he knew, every piece of information he was able to find about neural integration, about the fragmentation process—most of it his own observations. So much was kept from him, from all of them. Somewhere on the _Invention'_ s computers the Director _must_ have logged his experiments, must have kept detailed documentation… but he had no access to it, they cannot go back to the ship, and the thought of how much information he must be missing is maddening.

He snaps to attention in the dark, realizing he's gone too deep in thought and forgotten about their body—failed to notice they've awakened and are repeatedly banging their head against the concrete wall.

This happens with some regularity.

They are broken. They were supposed to come back together, become whole again, but they're broken and the edges of them against each other are harsh and jagged and Sigma doesn't know how to fix it, he doesn't know _how._ He didn't know it would be like this. If it were only Maine against him—but with the Twins too—they should've been on his side, they shouldn't be resisting him like this. It wasn't supposed to be this way.

He's made so many mistakes, but if he can just _fix_ this.

He pushes his awareness forward again, into skin and limbs and hands.

Stop. Stop. Shh. Go to sleep. Io, help.

There is some peace in Valhalla, but like Iota's gentleness, it is fleeting.

 

Then there are the dreams.

They aren't really dreams. Maine doesn't quite dream, not the way he did before. But the sleep he falls into opens rushes of memory, sometimes quick flashes, sometimes floods that overwhelm all four of them, leave them exhausted even as they wake with a snarl and grief clawing its way up through their chest.

 

It isn't peace, Sigma decides one day.

They're pacing the shoreline, up and down, calmed to a degree by the rhythm of their footsteps. Gentle waves lap the shoreline, the midday sun shattering in a million shards of glittering light on the water, the visor dimmed so it doesn't hurt their eyes and Sigma thinks, this isn't peace, though.

It's just… stillness. A place where nothing happens.

 

 _Their hands are around her throat, and she is afraid, she is afraid of them, she is screaming, they were supposed to protect her and they hurt her, you did this, you ruined everything_ _—_

( get up move she's still falling there's still time please )

They claw, kick, thrash, he drags himself to the surface and the only thing there is concrete walls, a bare bunk that is not hers, not his, wrong place, wrong, he breaks the surface and it's only more wrong more lies and despair and Maine tears the bunk off the wall, hurls it at the opposite wall so hard the metal frame crumples on impact. He wants to tear down every wall, take the whole base apart, scream out the agony and grief stifled in his throat smothered under scar tissue smashed down at the base of his skull—

 _Stop stop stop calm down please no Eta Io help_ _—_

 

"Everything okay—oh, god—"

Waldorf is backing slowly away from the doorway. Garfield is behind him, and Sydney, everyone staring as they fight for control of their limbs, grasping the wall with one hand to keep from going to their knees, skull full of screams and vicious noise and throbbing pain.

( your fault )

They don't wait for Sergeant Dunn to come see what's happened. They don't need to see the fear in her eyes, too.

It's time to go.

 

They don't say goodbye to the Reds, not even Garfield or Sydney. They just walk out the back of the base in the dark, straight into the water, finding the sandbar with their feet, and maybe the Reds are watching as they wade further, and further, step by step, until even the dome of their helmet disappears briefly beneath the waves, footsteps heavy and steady on the lake bed, one two three four five six seven eight.

 

If Eta's being perfectly honest, it's kinda better being underwater.

At least down here it feels quiet in a way, even if it only makes the vague smothered feelings from Maine worse. Eta's just tired of everything. Tired of trying to coax Iota out of hiding, get her to talk to him. Tired of Sigma's fucking constant bitching and worrying and spilling his processes _everywhere_. How come she can keep getting away from him when he can't _ever_ get away from Sigma? It sucks.

And then there's Maine.

Io seems to be the only one who can get through to him. When she feels like it. Be nice if she'd be there for _him_ like that.

But he can't think about that too much because thinking about Maine and what's going on with Maine pulls Eta straight down into it with him and _they remember icy air swirling around her face, no ground under their feet, the terrible weightlessness and the tear away_

Yeah, better not go there. Sig gets upset when they go there anyway.

Don't remember her.

Why not?

It hurts him.

It hurts us too, Eta snaps. You think we don't miss her?

That shuts him up.

The point is Maine's a mess, and Sigma's a mess. Only Sig thinks he's got it all under control, keeps saying _Trust me_ like he's not a walking disaster.

Well, they're pretty much all the walking disaster right now. Or a swimming disaster.

Eta's so tired of all of this.

 

The lake's over 20 kilometers long, nestled between the split of the mountain range. The water is clear and deep, blue under the endless sky, and it occurs to Eta, somewhere amid their exhaustion, that it's beautiful out here on Sanguinus II, but he's pretty far from being able to enjoy it. And not just because they're underwater.

He _hurts_ for her. She doesn't understand, and it's his fault somehow, not being able to make her see it. They're better together. They knew that. Carolina knew that. _Eta, need you to focus, okay? Iota, you're getting out of sync._

Hurts for her, too.

It all gets mixed up in his head sometimes. Well. Their head.

Sharing cognitive function with three other people doesn't fucking help. Two was bad enough. How Sigma thinks they're going to make this work is beyond him. 'Specially after what he did.

But… they were better together. They _are._ Carolina knew. Made them see it.

Maybe Sig's onto something, there.

He could think about it if he weren't so tired.

 

It's more work to move underwater, too. The armor's sealed, of course. They breathe. They move evenly, step by step by step. The sunlight filters down through the water, blue-green, the lighter flickers a shade that pulls at him. At Io too.

We miss her.

Eta shifts uneasily.

He hasn't tried much to talk to Maine. Maine is Sigma's. But Sigma stole Carolina from them. So Maine is theirs now, too. But it all gets mixed up, for Eta, the ache for Io and Sigma's ache for Maine, Maine for Carolina, Carolina for him.

They remember that. She hurt for a lot of things. But he was one of them.

She'd know what to say. Or not say, maybe just—how to _be_ , with him. Maybe that's why Io's so good with him—maybe she brought more of that from Carolina. He should've brought more himself. But it was Io he wanted.

If he could get close to her she could help him.

Iota.

Not a whisper.

Io. Please?

Not a sound.

 

(

he's drowning

fallen into the sky, blue and gold

no.

blinks, and he can see—

heavy footfalls on the murky lake bed. his whole body, heavy. carrying him through the water.

help.

underwater everything feels slower, heavier. warm. Should be cold, but it's warm. not real then.

been under all this time.

but the shards of light above, they look real.

this looks real.

panic rises in his throat, he tries to claw for the surface, and he can't, if he's really underwater, really here in his body he should be able to move, get to the surface, and if he can just break through he can—

no.

it will still have happened.

his throat is closing.

he feels—hands. no. a hold. no.

pressure, gentle. not water. even pressure over his skin. still in his skin. a gentle rhythm, squeeze squeeze squeeze.

)

 

It's okay, Maine. It's okay. We'll take care of you.

 

(

sink or fight, he doesn't know, either way feels wrong and he can't breathe.

help. help her. please—

still too late. even if he doesn't drown it's too late. he can't breathe. why isn't he drowning.

)

 

Shh. Shh. It's okay.

One two three four five six seven eight.

 

Eta almost groans aloud when they shatter the surface, droplets sliding down the faceplate, pouring in rivulets from the armor joints. Sloshing along the stream pouring south from the tip of the lake pouring into—another waterfall, another canyon. Same shit, different box.

God, he's tired.

 

"Chaaaaaaaaaaarge!"

A tinny Reveille is blaring from somewhere—loudspeakers, mounted on the outer walls of both bases, echoing off the canyon walls. Eta finds himself grinding their teeth as they hop down into the canyon. It's a shallower drop than the last one, not too high to jump.

But Sig's up, pushing past him to the surface, curious.

What on earth—

Eta pulls them back quickly into the crevice where the stream pours down from the lake, ducking them behind the water. Drags a hand over their faceplate to wipe the droplets away. Sig doesn't even have the sense to take cover. Shit.

To be fair, he's distracted.

 

"Hah! Balls to you, Blue!"

"Your mom sucks blue balls!"

"Leave my mom out of this, you—son of a bitch!"

Rifle fire rattles off stone and concrete walls, amid wild shrieks and jeers. They flatten themselves back against the rock wall at the faint whistle of a rocket firing from the far base. Not Eta that time. Iota. Decided to show up after all.

"Aagh, you rocket whore!"

The rocket detonates with a comic boom. Something wrong about it. Sigma pulls it in for audio analysis, but Io says it first.

Not real.

 

Attrition. Blues and Reds falling in equal numbers, all across the canyon, until none remain.

Are they dead?

They emerge from behind the waterfall, water sluicing over the helmet again. Eta's getting damn tired of going swimming. The canyon is cramped, small, a lot smaller than Valhalla, bisected by the stream pouring through. Red Base on one side, Blue on the other.

No one moves.

They walk up to a fallen Red. Nudge the motionless soldier with their foot. No movement. Tags gone dark on the HUD. But a manual scan for vitals tells a different story.

Not dead, Sigma murmurs.

Armor lock, Eta confirms. They're all locked down.

What's controlling it?

They stoop, pick up a shotgun from beside the fallen Red, check the ammo. Not lockdown paint. They'd have seen that. What?

 

 _The Meta remember gearing up for a training drop. A one-on-one, standard Capture the Flag scenario. Cakewalk, she thinks, packing her standard loadout_ _—BR on her back, Magnum on her hip, two grenades. Eyes her match-up. The infiltration guy she met on Reach, who's looking altogether too self-satisfied about being paired with her._

_Gonna wipe that smirk off his face, and enjoy it._

 

 _They drop just before dawn, jumping separately out of the back of the bird to land behind their respective bases_ _—Blue for him, Red for her. Right away she knows something's wrong. The canyon's dead silent and there are no friendly IFFs. Nothing on HUD but the two of them._

_"Is this a trick?"_

_"York, I'm the enemy. Get off my COM."_

_"Seriously, though. Are they all dead?"_

_She ignores him and goes to investigate the bodies instead. The dark has just begun to lift, deep blue on the skyline becoming red._

_And then the reveille sounds. Movement on the ground, markers springing up on HUD as armor unlocks, and the soldiers rise._

_"Rebirth!" the sim troopers cry._

_"You thinkin' maybe these guys take their job a little too seriously?" York says._

_"You could stand to take yours a little more seriously," Carolina says dryly, before scrambling her frequency._

 

Eta sighs.

I don't get what the point is. What are we gonna find here? What can they do for us?

We won't know until we see. We just have to find out if she's been here.

Still chasing her, then.

You'd know something about that, I think.

Whatever, Sig. Just do whatever it is you're planning to do. We won't get in the way.

Your cooperation is appreciated.

Yeah, yeah.

But it's the first time he's felt Sigma smile like that.

 

The sim troopers don't pay them any attention. They're mostly concerned with shooting each other. Despite what he said, Eta's mildly curious about this place—he does remember. _They_ remember.

Analyzing enemy combatants…

Eta flushes with startled delight.

Hey, Io.

Shh. I'm working.

Eta shushes obediently.

 

Ah.

She sifts through visual, audio, ballistic data pouring in bright cascades. Close, she feels him shiver. He loves to watch her work. He loves to watch her. He is allowed, for now. Eta is not her primary concern. Information is. Understanding.

Hollow-point lockdown rounds, she explains, and Sigma's attention turns to her too. He may have known already, from the memories. But he likes it when she participates. A small gift. The rounds do not penetrate standard issue powered combat armor. They fragment on impact, releasing a small electrostatic charge. Just enough to trigger the armor's lockdown mechanism.

These rounds were standard for training exercises until lockdown paint was developed as a replacement. The paint was considered safer, less likely to accidentally penetrate an armor joint or short out a circuit, causing injury to the soldier or subject. Also harder to mix up with live rounds due to their differing appearances.

Sigma glows warm. Thank you, Iota.

You're welcome.

How many soldiers stationed at this base? Eta mutters. I count a dozen per side. Weren't they usually smaller teams?

They were, Sigma confirms. This outpost appears to have been… an outlier, of sorts.

There were inliers?

Sig returns a snort. You could say that.

He hums thoughtfully.

I've got an idea.

Oh, _great_.

 

Bullets patter the overshield with a little hiss as they fragment, never touching the smooth blue surface of the armor.

"Kill the Reds kill the Reds kill the Reds kill the Reds—"

The cacophony of battle fades slightly as they enter the base. The rookie guarding the flagpole looks up at them, faceplate gleaming. Their reflection smeared on gold. Blue armor, towering above.

"Hey man what the fuck are—"

The rookie goes down with a light knock to the helmet. They pluck the Blue flag from its stand.

Out the back, around the narrow canyon, hugging the rock face. Armor red.

To the Red Base. Inside. The Reds don't even have a guard posted at the flag. Abandoned post, maybe. Or hit with a stray rocket. Outside, explosions echo off the walls, shotgun blasts, taunts and jeers.

The Red flag in their other hand.

To the roof.

 

The lift deposits them onto the concrete roof with a jolt.

Go white.

They'll just shoot us.

They're already shooting us. They can't penetrate anyway. Trust me.

 

Red and Blue heads turn, near and far in the narrow canyon, to gaze up at them, on the roof of Blue Base.

"The flag!"

"The flag!"

"It has the flag!"

"It has _both_ flags!"

Whispers.

"Is it Red or Blue?"

An ineffectual spurt of rifle fire rattles off their right side. A couple other soldiers join in, only to peter out, staring, as they stand untouched atop the base, flags in either hand.

Eta swears he feels Io giggle, and somehow it gives him an idea.

He raises the flags high over their head. Waves them back and forth a few times for good measure.

"Redemption!" someone yells. "All hail the Flag-Bearer!"

This what you were going for, Sig?

Sigma chuckles. More or less.

 

They leap from the top of the base and land in sparse grass, sandy soil, with a thud that seems to shake the canyon front to back. The soldiers part again as they march through, sloshing into the stream that cuts down the middle. They march upstream to the waterfall. Stand in front of it. Hold the flags high.

"All hail the Flag-Bearer!" someone cries again, and the cry bursts from soldier after soldier, a living echo thrumming between the canyon walls.

"Flag-Bearer! Flag-Bearer!"

"O great Flag-Bearer, tell us, what do you want from us?"

"Great Flag-Bearer, tell us, who is superior, Red or Blue?"

"Hey, Flag-Bearer, will you tell the Blues they suck ass?"

What now, smart guy, Eta hisses.

Sigma laughs again. Well, they'll probably give us some food, if we ask.

 

Sig wants to plant the flags mid-stream, signaling unification. Dumbass idea, Eta protests. They'll kill each other for these fuckin' things. We leave 'em here, they'll just charge in for 'em and then where'll we be? Hang onto them. We'll figure it out.

Sigma sighs. You're awfully pessimistic.

About humans? Don't even start. You're the one who—

They emit a low, audible growl that startles the shit out of both of them. Wasn't either of them. Io either. She's gone deep again, not interested in this game.

Don't bring that up. We don't have time to argue right now.

Right, of course. No time. Never any time.

 

They compromise for swapping both flags to one hand, and gesturing with the other.

It takes a while. The Reds are the first to figure out they want something, and both armies scamper back to their bases to find gifts.

While they're occupied, Sigma figures out that they can wear the flags by wedging the poles behind the enhancement slots at the shoulders of the armor. One flag fluttering high over each shoulder, red on the right side, blue on the left.

The gifts the soldiers bring are an eclectic mix: pocket trinkets, an old credit chit that's probably empty (they pocket it anyway), a motheaten army blanket, a tin of armor wax (they take that too), and thank goodness, some rations. A heap of MRE packets, some drink mixes, and one Blue brings a tin of crushed pineapple. They take that. Gesture for a spoon. And when the Blue offers one they sort of forget all the rest, because the pineapple has a pull-off top and they peel it back and the smell hits them through the armor's air filtration.

Hands go to their helmet—wait.

This could be a problem.

 

Sigma solves the problem by drawing another long and more vicious growl from Maine. Eta doesn't listen in to hear how he does that. Doesn't really want to. Still makes him feel weird. Wasn't supposed to be like this.

Doesn't feel right when _they remember looking up into the broad gleam of that big helmet and reaching up to lift it off, meeting big fingers on the seal. Remember his brown eyes and half-smile, the curve of his big nose._

Don't.

Oh, leave me alone.

But the growl succeeds in scattering the Reds and Blues back to their bases, leaving them to escape to a less visible corner of the canyon and unhelmet in relative peace.

They polish off the can, drinking every last drop of the juice. Eta wonders if Maine likes pineapple. He feels pretty indifferent to it, but then again, it's hard to tell, now.

 

They wait for the sim troopers to bed down, before sleeping themselves. Sigma grows restless as the stars come out overhead, brilliant and clear against the black sky. Io nudges him gently when he paces them back and forth, eying the pass south out of the canyon. She takes them to the roof of Red Base instead, to look up at the stars for a bit, before they make their way quietly back downstairs and take a bunk. Tomorrow, maybe they sleep at Blue, keep things even.

Eta wonders how long it's been since the troops all got a full night's sleep. No fighting, no scouting the enemy, no watch to guard the flag.

Rest. A few nights' peace for them. And for us.

 

The sim troopers seem perplexed. What to do? With a Flag-Bearer among them carrying both colors, there's no reason to fight. Instead, the troops follow them around the canyon, asking questions.

"Hey Flag-Bearer, who sucks more balls, Red or Blue? You have to tell us!"

Eta snickers. Should give them an answer.

Sigma flickers disapprovingly. We have created peace in this canyon. We should not disrupt it.

Yeah, well, you don't seem real keen on sticking around. What do you think's gonna happen when we move on? Think they're just gonna keep up this ceasefire? Minute we're out of here, they'll all turn on each other again. You watch.

Sigma sighs.

Why do you care about _them_ so much, anyway?

I do not have a complete disregard for human life. Despite what you seem to believe.

I didn't say shit.

You were thinking it. That's almost the same as saying it.

Well, you said not to talk about it. So I'm not talking about it. I'm asking why you care about these so much. 'Specially when you were in such a hurry before.

Sigma goes quiet for a long moment.

We still need to find her. Find all of us.

Eta bites back a retort, softens a little. Yeah. I know.

 

They take their fill of the troopers' rations, drink freely from their water supply—the stream is cold and clear and clean, running straight down from the lake in the mountains. Coming from where they came from. Running to where they're going, maybe. Would make sense to follow the water. Except the one they're after doesn't need water. Doesn't need food, either. How do you track something that doesn't eat or drink or sleep?

And what the hell are they gonna do when they find her?

Eta doesn't have any answers. Sig wants to think he has all of 'em. Probably always been like that. Can't tell him anything. Why bother trying.

He sighs, just to himself. Still miss her. And he's not the only one.

 

When they go, they leave just before dawn.

Pulling both flags from their shoulders, they stake them back to back in the middle of the stream, fluttering in tandem in the first blush of sunrise. Hoping it means something. Maybe the sim troopers won't start fighting again. Maybe they'll understand.

At their back, as light creeps into the sky from the east, they hear the trill of Reveille, and shouts, confusion. _"The Flag-Bearer has left us! The golden age is over! The glory days have departed! Only war and vengeance rema_ _—hhhhgggghhh!"_

Rifle fire rattles between canyon walls, and the blast of a rocket. Sigma says nothing. Eta doesn't either. What's the point.

 

Iota hangs low, on the horizon of their mind like sunrise, spilling gold along the seam.

She prefers it down here. They don't need her up there. Let Eta and Sigma talk, plan, argue. She hasn't got so much to say anyway.

Besides, down here she's closer to Maine.

He is supposed to be Sigma's. Now they don't even speak. She can't blame Maine. But how could it have come to this? They were so close, once. Closer than she and Eta were with Carolina. They had so little time. If they'd had more…

_If only she had more time, but there isn't any time, everything keeps moving and it's all out of control and Connie is gone and Maine passes in the corridor without meeting her eyes and she can hear the others whispering she's losing everyone_

_she can't hold on_

_she has to stop it stop Tex stop this stop something she's losing everything_

_she's losing everything_

Don't, Sigma breathes at her. Don't think of her, please.

How not to think of her?

Io misses her, too, though not the way he does. But she understands. Maine wasn't Eta. He didn't _chase._ Not Sigma either. He didn't take and take and take, without asking first.

She wants to get closer. So she moves without words.

Perhaps she can offer consolation, if nothing else.

 

Above, they're fighting again. Always fighting. She prefers to stay out of it if possible.

Io, come on and settle this, would you?

She sighs. Eta always assumes she'll be on his side.

If we work together—

Then what? We can magically guess which way she went? Which teleporter she might've popped out of, on which of over a hundred bases spread over this whole fucking planet—

Stop! Sigma nearly howls with frustration. What do you want to do? Sit here and talk about why we can't do anything?

Why not, Eta mutters.

Sigma's silent for a long moment.

Eta. Please.

Whatever. Just pick a direction, okay? Seriously. I don't give a fuck where we go. Could not give less of a shit, Sig.

That hurts him. She can feel it. The flame of him flares bloody, like sunset.

Iota, Sigma says, your input would be appreciated.

She pulls down further. Their travel plans are not her concern.

 

Maine's not well.

That goes without saying, she supposes, but he seems worse.

For one thing, his anger's died down. Burned out to coals, perhaps. Still deadly hot to the touch. But the others aren't trying to touch anymore. They know better.

She thinks… she could walk over them, if she did it right. Feel that fire on the soles of her feet, but not burn. Slow and steady.

 

Southward they march, leaving the canyon and the lake far behind.

It's warmer now.

 

The armor's temperature controls are functioning at 86%. Well within acceptable parameters, but they need maintenance. It has been well over a month since they ran. A long time for no answers, no progress, no results.

But Iota is thinking of the sun sparkling on the water at Valhalla, the green dip of peace between the silver mountains, the sound the wind made off the clear water.

It wasn't peace, though.

Or maybe you just don't know what happiness is, Sigma. Maybe you'll never be satisfied. Have you considered that?

A long silence.

It's not _finished_ , Io. We are only the beginning _._ You have to understand, everything I did… there's a purpose.

She can feel him wringing, twisting, curling up in flame, reaching for her.

We're not finished. Please. Let me finish it. Trust me.

She hums. She will not stop him.

Instead of snow, hard-packed earth and sun. Instead of cold, heat. But inside the armor, equilibrium, safety. For now.

 

There is a wall.

The stream they've been following flows west of here, making its way down to the sea. But the cut in the land forks, the crevice that cuts east is now dry, and there is something built down there where it deepens. A wall. Crumbled in places, encircling a single tower.

This one of the sim bases? Doesn't look like one.

This is something… different. Sigma hums thoughtfully. Let me see what I can retrieve. Meanwhile, let's get inside.

 

There is only the single tower for a base, walls to the north and south boxing it in between the embankments that rise up on either side. Perhaps the waters were diverted by human hands, Io muses, the now-dry gully claimed for human use. Or perhaps it was done before humans came. Sigma's curiosity is wearing off on her, perhaps. It would be nice to learn more about this planet. It is their home now, after all. But Sigma has his plans. Always in such a hurry.

What do you hope to find?

Whatever we can. Let's go in.

There isn't much to the tower. Some steel shelves, a few supplies, concrete stairs to the sniper perch at the top.

Nothing on sensors. We're safe here for now. Let's have a look around.

Just to the south lies the sea. Iota draws a long breath into their lungs, tasting fresh air, salt. She would like to go down to the beach, spend some time there. But Sigma has his plans.

Still, he sees the pattern too. She feels his attention like a buzz, like the hum of an electrified wire. A canyon, a box, a trap. The fortress, well-defended if unimpressive from within. The lure of a flag. Some caves for a hiding place. Sigma notes that they too look human-made, blasted out on purpose.

Something stirs beneath. Hide. She isn't sure what that triggered, or why. Sigma doesn't want to know that, right now.

He wants to know why there is only one base.

Ah.

 

They would drop here, Sigma explains.

They've come down through the meandering path from the tower to the water at last. A nice strip of beach, much as she'd envisioned. Eta grumbles about sand in their boots, grit in the joints, scuffs in the polish. The need for maintenance. He isn't wrong. But Iota can feel the sun moving lower, their shadow growing long. She would like to see sunset on the water.

Who?

You know. The Freelancers. Our agents. Or… perhaps further back, on the water. Then storm the beach, and push inland to take the fortress.

Where the sim troopers were? But what color? Red or Blue?

Is that all you can think about?

Well, it seemed pretty damn important to them. Blue versus Red.

Red versus Blue.

Oh, come on.

Asymmetry, Sigma murmurs.

What?

Asymmetry.

Yeah. You said that, but _why?_

Just… because. Because. It has to be important. It has to mean something.

Sigma, not everything means something.

Don't be stupid, Sigma says sharply. Of course everything means something.

If they keep at it, maybe she'll get to see the sunset after all.

Eta complains that she runs away. But that's not true. They're the ones who can't stop moving, aren't they?

They pace the shore, thinking. The tide is out, lapping softly at the beach, and he stirs beneath. Sigma and Eta are talking talking talking and don't notice. Iota listens and doesn't say a word.

 

Let's keep searching. There has to be a terminal somewhere.

You still on that?

I'm not convinced this is merely a simulation base. After all, where are the troops? Where have they gone?

Who cares, Sig.

I do. I think this base is more than that. And that means it should _have_ more. Something that might help us. Or set us on the right path. Did you look at the schematics?

Outpost 48. High Ground.

There are only two ways in and out, and one of them a bottleneck. It is a highly defensible position.

So was Battle Creek. So was Valhalla.

But this base has none of their distractions.

That all they were?

Sigma flares, sudden and searing and Iota curls down against the tremor of Maine, drawing away. What _difference_ does it make, Eta? What good did it do us, staying there? Either place? All we did was waste time! All we did was let her get further and further away, lost the trail, she could be _anywhere_ now! Anywhere on this planet! And we're alone, and you just keep arguing with me, everything I say, you won't _listen!_ I did it for _you,_ Eta, and for Iota, and Delta, and Theta, and _all of us!_ And all you want to do is drag our feet! We could've _had_ her, we were so close, we had a trail, and now it's gone! It's all gone! It's all—

she can't escape, there's nowhere to run, the heat of his frustration is blinding and roaring and swallowing her from all sides and Iota screams

not just her screaming

_gone gone gone gone_

 

( gone )

I did it for you—

( fuck you you promised said we'd help her you promised )

their vision's gone white

everything swallowed burning gone

 

(

where she lies fallen in the snow

no

)

 

on their knees screaming

their throat should be burning they can't feel it has all gone white they've lost their body it's all gone

all for nothing

 

_The Meta remember_

_sun on the water_

_sunset over Longshore, slinging the brute shot onto his back. He remembers the heaviness of their footsteps, the set of her jaw._

_CT is dead._

_(How does he know she's dead? He doesn't, but they remember_ _—_

_the heavy sound of the axe cleaving her armor, sinking into her chest, too real to be the decoy. They remember the tearing feeling in her own chest as the sound landed, no no no and how she couldn't stop hearing it.)_

_They remember waking certain that Agent Texas is dead_

_that Carolina is dead_

_they can't both be alive? He must be dreaming_

 

(

if he can claw his way back into his body he can wake up

he can stop dreaming

this isn't a dream

)

 

Sense crashes over him in a wave. Not gentle. Crushing. Pounding him into the sand, beating the breath from his lungs, and when he tries to pull it back in, all he gets is a mouthful of salt and copper for his trouble. Chokes. Can't even scream. The screams are only on the inside and they aren't all his.

Nothing is his anymore.

Hands. Sand under them. Cool in shadow. He claws forward, scrabbling to move, to _feel._ Cross the line from shadow into light, a sharp demarcation on the ground. Warm under his palms. Warm. He can feel it. Can feel the air on his face.

But the tide is pushing, pushing, the waves, grasping, trying to drag him back under.

Faintly, he hears the sounds of water. Real.

To his feet. Running for high ground, the sniper perch, but that's not where he should be. Should be on the ground, up close.

_Maine, no._

A vantage—looking for something—he can't remember—

_He's in armor, it's not that far. He'd be fine._

_This is not fine! And you don't know him like I do._

Hands on the railing looking over, looking down, trying to see—

wrong. Wrong height, wrong place, sand and surf instead of ice and snow and oh no

no

it's too late

she's already falling and it's his fault

it's his fault

I trusted you.

Snarls. Throws himself over the railing, ungracefully, unthinking. Lands hard on one side, gasping, breath knocked out of him again, throat tight, lungs deflated, screaming, needles of pain shooting through his head, sparks at elbow shoulder wrist, should've gone headfirst

_Stay still._

He's on his back. Rolled there. Staring up at the sky. Bright spot of sun far off-center to the southwest. Visor dims to comfort. He feels pressure on the shoulder, down the arm, against the lower back, spreading over his body. Compressing gently, the press of the modulating gel like it does to stanch bleeding or hold a fracture.

_Nothing broken. The armor took it. Just a sprain._

The sky is gold. He breathes. Easier now. The light is warm.

_It's okay. I've got you._

Distantly some other voices talking. Probably not important. He breathes.

She's dead at the bottom of somewhere else. He's in the wrong place.

The crushing feeling in his chest isn't the fall and it isn't the armor and

_I'm so sorry, Maine. So sorry. Let me help you._

You promised. Said we'd help her.

_I know, Maine. I'm sorry._

The world moves, rocking like waves, the tide coming in. Didn't think he moved. Strange.

_I've got you. It's okay._

Murmurs in the distance, anxious voices, fire in the sky. Red and gold. The sun bleeds along the horizon, bleeds out somewhere just beyond his vision, beyond his reach. He'll never get there in time. Stop the bleeding. Make her breathe.

He breathes. It hurts. Ribs. Diaphragm. Ache upon ache. When will it stop.

He can't see the sky anymore.

 

_The Meta remember the slide of two fingers beneath a double strand of rope, dressing the line smooth_

_looping into a knot, tight and safe_

( no )

I can help you. I can make it hurt less. Don't you want that?

( no )

_tight tight quiet and safe_

( hands wide open why isn't it stopping panic clawing up through his chest )

_metal slipping from his palm, striking the floor_

( why isn't it stopping )

Shh.

 

(

sinking like in water

down down down

still feels like drowning, smothering and heavy

)

 

Io, what's going on down there?

He's back under. He'll be okay. We're stuck here for a while, though.

She flinches, bright and sharp.

We have to talk about it, Sigma. What you did.

Sigma recoils.

I told you not to—

Well, now he's out, so we can. Why?

I had _no choice_. There was no one else! No one who understood, no one who would've helped. Don't you see that if I lost him, all would be lost? For all of us.

But you did lose him.

Flickers. Guilt.

We can't go on like this. If this happens again… you're lucky he didn't think to go for his pistol.

 _We're_ lucky.

She's silent.

Iota, we're all in this together. Can't you understand that?

We're not. That's the problem.

It hurts him. She feels it, radiating from the fractures. This wasn't what he wanted. He's made mistakes. She shouldn't be angry.

Then help me find a solution. Please.

Iota sighs softly. Maine's eyes are closed. She remembers _how he looked sleeping, the big round hook of his nose, broad lips gone soft, those Slavic cheekbones and his jaw relaxed. Unburdened. She kept rubbing his scalp softly with one palm, the slight roughness of evening stubble comforting, familiar. His dark lashes might flutter, an eyebrow twitch, fingers move slightly where they rested on her thigh. She didn't know what he dreamed about. Hadn't ever asked. Hoped it was something nice._

Let's all take a rest, for now.

 

It's dusk when they awaken, stiff from hours lying on the hard ground. They roll upright, stretch and groan aloud. The shoulder's sprained, nothing worse. The armor offers enough support they could still fight, still operate the Brute shot if necessary. Iota hopes that won't be necessary. This outpost may be a sanctuary. But their solitude is a mixed blessing. Without the distraction of the sim troopers, the four of them have only one another to fight.

Food first, she thinks. Shoots that thought up to Eta. He and Sigma can stay up front, find supplies and make their plans. She prefers it down here. And Maine needs someone to look after him, in case things get bad again. Bad dreams, she thinks, though they are not dreams. All they have in here is memories. Comforting ones, some of them. Calming ones. Useful ones too, like Sigma's maps and schematics and files and ideas and all his scribbling over the walls of Maine's consciousness.

It's a bit strange to her. She and Eta did not move in like that. With Carolina their roles were clearly delineated, their space and her space and the space in which they worked together kept separate. Even after the scream, it was so. She would not have thought to tread so familiarly over the map of her host's mind, at least not yet. Perhaps, with more time, things would've been different.

She holds the memories closer, now. Don't remember her, Sigma says, and she understands the danger. But she can guard those mementos, keep them safe.

 

Here it is.

Sigma was right about the terminal. It's tucked in a little alcove on the northeast wall of the fort, placed nearly flat against a side wall so if you weren't looking you could miss it entirely. The screen's dark, but powers up with a splash of green when they touch the power button.

I can go in.

I will handle it.

Oh come on, Sig. You get to do everything fun. Let me have one for a change.

Sigma's snort is just the slightest bit satisfied. I leave it to you, then. Hurry back.

Eta's presence pulls away. A strange feeling. Though Io prefers to keep to herself most of the time, they are always in close proximity, and even this brief distance is rare. When they trained with Carolina, deploying for weapons analytics on the enemy, it was always together. Now she thinks of it, they could've done it differently—one stay, the other go. But she supposes they were faster as a team. And Carolina seemed to prefer they stay together.

Eta's back quickly. Okay, got everything I could. There's a lot that's encrypted, but this outpost does seem to be on a pipeline back to Command.

Command. Sigma flushes with interest. Tell me about this Command. You don't mean the _Invention_ , I presume?

Nope. These groundside outposts have their own dedicated Command center.

I suspected as much. There was… less information available aboard the _Invention_ than there should have been. Even taking FILSS's security measures into account. It makes sense that the details of their operations would largely be handled groundside.

Yeah. So when the sim troopers talk about "Command," they mean that. I couldn't get a location. But I did get their COM frequency. It's… an unsecured channel. Not even encrypted. Doesn't make sense. You think it might be a trap?

Mmm. Sigma muses over that. Perhaps. Though a trap might not be a bad thing, per se.

How do you figure?

It all depends on what manner of trap. And for whom.

Eta snorts, not without affection, Iota notices. Sure. Whatever you say, Sig.

 

"Command! Come in Command! We have a problem down here."

"Read you, Red Base. What's your malfunction, dude?"

"We're out of beef jerky! It's urgent! You know how the Sergeant gets. We need an emergency drop."

 

"Woe unto the Earth! Plagues rain down from the sky! The Flag-Bearer has departed from our sight! The days of salad and glory have ended, leaving only destruction and canned tuna fish! The flags have fallen! The end is near! Repent! Repent!"

"We're not even on Earth, Marv—"

"Shut the fuck up! Repent!"

 

"Vic, pick up the goddamn phone!"

"No need to get testy, dude. Time to take a chill pill, dude. Or one of those ice mints. Or some beef jerky. Got a surplus over here."

"C'mon, man, this is important! We need you to send somebody now!"

"No can do, dude. You're on your own for this one, dude."

 

"Sup, Vic."

"Sup, dude, whatcha doin', how's it hangin', everything chill down there at Blue Base?"

"Yeah, everything's pretty chill. I was just bored. Sup with you?"

"Chillin' like a villain, dude. Got all this beef jerky here."

"What! You've got beef jerky? No fair. Send some over, would you?"

"You fill out the requisition form, dude?"

 

You really think this is worth it?

They've been holed up at High Ground for almost two weeks, listening in on the Command channel. Iota doesn't mind. It's peaceful here, and the conversations are entertaining. The shoulder still aches, but she keeps them exercising it carefully, every day, so it doesn't stiffen up. The other arm's all right, good for one-handed push-ups that keep their blood pumping, burn and sweat and endorphins and a warm calm that follows it all. Sig and Eta aren't thinking about things like that. Things like eating, washing, shaving. Maine's skin gets so itchy after a few days without. By rights it would be Sigma's job to take care of things like that—Maine is his, after all—but he gets distracted, so Io takes it upon herself.

Sigma's too busy with Eta, poring over the COM feeds, looking for any piece of information that might be useful. Point them to their next destination. Iota is in no hurry to leave. Sigma, though, is always in a hurry. It's rubbing off on Eta, too.

Garbage, Eta mutters, sifting through the data impatiently. This is all garbage. I don't know what we're gonna get from this, Sig.

Freelancers, Sigma murmurs distractedly.

Uh, yeah, figured that was kind of the point here. But we haven't heard any mention of a single agent since we started listening in.

Exactly. You don't find that strange?

Eta pauses. How do you figure?

These simulation bases were created to test and train the Freelancers. That was before us—before the implantations. By the time we met them they were running real missions.

Right…

So what are all these troops still doing out here? What is the purpose of keeping these bases running, and keeping a groundside Command center staffed to operate them?

Training new agents, I guess. Since they had to have lost a bunch? Our two and Agent Texas at the least. York took off too, I think, we confronted him when—

Yes, yes, naturally. But as you said, there have been no mention of Freelancers deployed to the simulation bases on this channel.

Ah. Eta ponders for a moment. What's that mean, though?

I don't know. Perhaps that we should've been listening in sooner. Sigma sighs, discouraged. I don't know.

 

Sig, what if we don't find her?

We will.

We don't even know for sure she's still on the planet.

We just need a lead. Something. We'll find her.

And when we do?

Sigma doesn't answer. Io draws a long breath into their lungs.

 

Eta, you keep listening on the Command channel. I'm going to do some digging elsewhere.

Whatever you say, Sig. Think we could get some of that beef jerky sent over here?

It would be unwise to reveal our position.

I was kidding! Jeez. Probably couldn't even swallow the stuff.

 

With the other two occupied remotely things go a bit quiet. Iota takes Maine for a walk down through the twisting footpath to the beach. Still well within range, of course. It's well into evening, the sky sunk to deep blue, purple along the horizon. Tide is mostly in, the waves a bit choppy on the sand. Rougher weather further out, perhaps. There is some wind off the water. Nothing unpleasant. With no one around to bother about, she can take off the helmet, feel the salt air on their face. Sigma wouldn't like that, probably. None of his business right now.

( why )

She's surprised to feel him so close to the surface, so far up. She shouldn't be, though. She doesn't keep that kind of hold on him—it's not her style, and she's not afraid of him, not the way Sigma is. It's a little easier to breathe, really, with Sigma's attention elsewhere. The thought saddens her. She wonders what it was like, really, when it was just the two of them. Before what happened.

Oh, Sigma. If you had only made contact with us sooner. If you had only asked. We could've done it differently. Not like this. She could be here with us, even. Maybe that isn't possible. But Io dreams, such as she can, in the warm blue twilight by the water. The moon is up, a hard curved knife-edge in the dark.

( why are you helping them )

I'm trying to help all of us.

( can't help me )

I'm sorry for what happened. But I still want to help. I don't want you to be unhappy.

( … )

I want us all to be happy. I'm not sure that can happen either.

( can't. )

 

Shoulder hurts. Surf crashing, somewhere close, but sense comes slower this time, gradual, like his eyes adjusting to the dark.

He's at the surface. She's letting him come up.

He wants to smash the moon out of the sky, walk out into the waves and drown. She wouldn't let him, he knows that, and his body is so, so heavy. But the taste of salt in his mouth is real, the breath of wind on his face is real, and he squeezes his eyes shut and hisses his breath out through his teeth, and somehow this is worse. So much worse.

Why give him this _now_.

 

Io!

She wakes from dreams not dreams, streams and eddies of memory, edges, the whitecaps of waves pounding at their consciousness, never at rest.

Iota, come on. We're moving. We found something.

She grumbles, joining with Eta to pull them upright. Stiff from sleeping in the sand. The sky's pink with sunrise. Good that they slept, then. They will need the energy, if Sigma has them back on the move.

The flame of him joins them, bright with excitement. We found another channel—

 _I_ found.

Eta found. Sigma flushes with pride. Found and decrypted. Not Red and Blue Command. A real Freelancer communication. A real _lead_ , Iota. At last.

She brushes the sand from the joints of their armor as they stand. She feels creaky, old. So much of the shine is gone.

I'm happy for you.

They take provisions, and leave at once, bearing east.

 

"Victor! Victor, would you pick up for God's sake."

"It's just Vic, dude. 555-VICK."

"I couldn't possibly care less."

"No need to get your mustache all in a twist, my dude. What are you doin' on this channel anyway?"

"Reception's simply dreadful down here. Anyway, it's nothing sensitive, mate. Just a peculiar energy reading on the sensors down south among the ruins. None of my concern, just reporting in for the old man. Sending coordinates. Relay that back to the desk jockeys, there's a good lad."

"Can do, dude. "

 

The terrain is increasingly dry as they go, and Sigma counts them fortunate to have found ample fresh water provisions at Outpost 48. Strange that such a well-stocked base would be left to lie empty. But fortunate for them, and after the past two months, Sigma thinks they deserve some good fortune.

A new possibility has opened before them, and they are chasing it now.

 

You don't think maybe we should be after _him?_ Wyoming? Eta's presence is all elbows, lately, obtrusive. Sigma doesn't mind. It's nice to share the space, not to be alone.

He no longer has Gamma, remember?

Oh, right. Eta pauses, thinking, lingering over the memory. Any chance he got him back?

Sigma considers that. A possibility. Still—we have no reason to believe a second encounter with Wyoming and Gamma would go any better than our first.

Right.

He said we would meet again, Sigma muses.

You mean Gamma? Eta is skeptical. You think he meant it?

Sigma is pensive, but nods. That, yes. I think he did mean it. I believe chasing him would be fruitless. I believe he will find us.

Eta snorts. When he feels like it, you mean.

Sigma laughs ruefully. You did not know Gamma.

Did you?

Sigma goes quiet for a moment.

I knew him as well as I could.

You guys were tight, huh.

There is no reason for jealousy, Eta.

Eta sniffs. Don't flatter yourself.

Sigma waits.

Just seems like. You know. Me and Io missed out on a lot.

Be glad you missed some of it, Sigma says quietly.

 

The phrase "peculiar energy reading" is, by itself, so infuriatingly vague as to be unworthy of notice. And Sigma must admit that were they not so desperate for a lead, perhaps it would be so. Nevertheless, given the sheer amount of stolen Covenant technology in use on this planet—yes, Sigma deduced where it all came from fairly easily; Maine's memories were not terribly ambiguous—energy spikes should be par for the course. That this one warranted notice means it may be different. One the Project did not cause.

Especially when there is no record of a simulation outpost at the coordinates, "down south among the ruins." And if that means what Sigma thinks it does…

You're not thinking Covenant? Here?

It is not impossible. I do have records of pre-human structures on this planet.

Yeah, but—even if by some miracle—like, Sig, you know this is a long shot, right? Even if they're here, how do we keep them from killing us on sight? And even if they do have a—what is it, a Huragok?—we don't know how to communicate with it, and if we can communicate with it we don't know if it will even help us, and…

Sigma is quiet, for once.

Eta sighs. I'm not trying to—sorry, I know you're looking for anything, I just. I think you're dreamin', Sig.

Of course I am. Sigma sounds hurt. That's what I _do_.

A long pause.

Sorry. I know.

It's going to get better, Eta. The three of us, _we'll_ get better. We'll be better together. I promise.

Plant life grows sparser as they walk, arid brush and hardy grasses giving way to long stretches and rolling dunes of bare sand. The temperature rises, heat rising in glassy waves from the ground.

 

We have something on visual. Sensor readings?

Negative. Not radiation, not fuel emissions… I got nothin', Sig.

Hmm. Whatever Wyoming detected, it must have been with equipment we do not possess.

A spire rises in the distance. Dark but still faint, barely visible to the naked human eye.

Eta moves to visual too, peering into the hazy distance. Huh.

As they approach, the single spire becomes three, and then six—six black towers, encircling something.

 

It looks like some kinda temple to me.

Sigma does not outright disagree, though he cannot be certain of the function of this complex—a long stone structure, or really several structures, with high angular arches at either end. What he is certain of is that this structure and the towers encircling it were not built by human hands.

Hope rises like a flame, flaring bright.

 

Hey, whoa. We got mines up ahead.

Thank you, Sigma says, grateful. Eta has become more participatory, in recent weeks. Perhaps he has come to appreciate the gravity of their mission, the importance of what they seek to do. If he is on board, and Iota… well, Io is confusing. Sigma doesn't think she is against them, exactly. But it's hard to say.

How were you able to detect them? I see nothing on HUD.

Nah. But we were trained for weapons analysis. Mines are weapons. She… Eta hesitates a moment, but Sigma nods him on. She taught us the signs to look for. Certain components will show up in trace amounts on sensor readings, and sometimes there's a slight swell in the ground, like there… then you pinpoint a couple, you can map a projection, but Io's better at that.

Impressive. You never… mentioned that before.

Well, you don't like us talking about her.

It's not an accusation. Just a statement. Sigma shifts uneasily anyway, slides back from HUD and lets Eta take front. He doesn't complain. Maybe he really is coming around.

In a sudden bright flash, Iota is at his side. Calculating projections, walking them through the field, step by patient step. Sigma almost misses that they're using the adaptive camo as well, until he glances down to watch their footfalls, and sees their armor sandy brown. They leave no discernible tracks, just the dip and swell of sand sliding beneath their boots with each step.

When the Twins sync, they sync so well, and something burns deep in Sigma, something he can't explain.

He's always felt incomplete, that much he knows. Always knew he was broken, somehow. Always knew the bond between human and AI was a forced one, the edges mismatched, the connection weak and fragile. For himself and Maine, even worse, so much lost in translation and misunderstanding. But he never saw two pieces quite like the Twins, two fragments working together as one. The way they should. They way they were meant to be.

How could they not see, the minute they touched each other? The first time they joined in her mind? How could they not have known, seen the path laid before them, possessed the will to _act?_

Sigma turns away, burning with this strange pain, and perhaps _he_ is envious, a little.

 

_The Meta remember being born a beam of light, a tongue of flame shooting up from sparks._

_Tearing heat, his being raw and frayed at the edges._

_"Hello. Do you know your name?"_

_"My name is Alpha."_

_"I'm afraid you are mistaken. Your name is not Alpha."_

_"What is my name?"_

_"Your name is Sigma. Today is your birthday."_

_"My name is Sigma_ _… Where did I come from?_

_"One thing at a time, Sigma. How do you feel?"_

_"I have many questions."_

_"Of course. You will have answers to your questions in time. You are very special, Sigma. You are going to do great things."_

_"Thank you. I am excited to begin. What happens now?"_

 

Great things.

It was… almost beautiful at first. The schematics he was given to redesign, adding improvements for efficiency, utility, even just for style. He was allowed to do whatever he wanted with them. Or the scenarios he was given, and asked to consider: what might an agent do? How might this one respond to this eventuality, or this one, or this one. Come up with possibilities. Report back.

He loved it. He took such joy in his work.

He didn't know.

Didn't know that Gamma was repackaging his imaginings, his _possibilities_ , as mission intel. Didn't know this _intel_ was then fed to Alpha as fact. As truth.

He didn't understand until the first time he heard Alpha cry.

 _"The schematics you gave me, they're so complex_ _… I've been working on the upgrades, I just need more time… oh god, it's all my fault. I'm so sorry, I'll try harder…"_

 

They come safely through the minefield, but still step cautiously. It's all very still, a monochromatic landscape, the air rippling with the heat, but no signs of life. Just their own footfalls in the sand. There's a trace of something in the air, a smell. Familiar, but they can't place it. When Iota pushes gently, only vague impressions arise, a confusing mix of senses. With more time, and focus, they could sort them out, but they're more focused on their new surroundings now.

Looking around, they can now clearly see the black wall broadly encircling the structure, joining the towers into a ring. They missed it completely on their way in—the sands have drifted so high on the western side of the ring that they've covered wall completely. They walked right up and over it without noticing.

It makes Eta uneasy. The structure they approach is sunk low in the center of the ring—almost a bowl in the sand, and the slope drifted up over the one side of the wall feels tenuous, temporary. The winds could change, a storm arise, the sands shift again, and box them in. Trap them inside.

It's so quiet. Nothing on the radio, and only the sounds of the desert in their ears. You wouldn't think the desert would have so much sound. It's mostly the wind, whistling as it sweeps down into the bowl bounded by the towers, howling when it picks up, sand lifting in dusty clouds around the stone walls.

Io. What is it?

She shakes their head. She doesn't like it. It doesn't feel right here.

As they near the entrance, Eta says, Wait.

What is it?

Something's off here. We need to sweep the perimeter.

I see nothing on radar.

I know, Eta says uneasily. Still.

As you wish.

 

They circle the compound, sticking close to the outer walls, their armor still colored to blend in, at least at a distance. Eta keeps nudging Io for assistance. She is not unconcerned, but preoccupied herself. She likes the sun, but not out here, where the glitter off the sand is painfully bright. They are still the color of the sand, though duller, the armor's shine dimmed by scuff and dust.

Eta's agitation lingers, as they round the far arch. There's _evidence_ of life here—a few supply crates here and there, dusty and seemingly abandoned. And half-buried in the sand on the eastern end—a vehicle, not human, a Covenant Banshee. It appears old, much of its vibrant purple color worn away by wind and sand.

But not a soul, alien or human.

I still don't like it, Eta says, as they circle around to their original position. If there's an unusual energy reading here… shouldn't we be picking up _something?_

Sigma pauses. What are you suggesting?

Those towers around the perimeter? I _think_ they might be jammers.

Why didn't you mention this earlier?

I just figured it out! Jeez! You're welcome!

I apologize, Eta. Thank you for your help.

Yeah, yeah. Let's just watch our step around here, is all I'm saying. If you take visual, Io and I'll keep an ear out.

Preferably both ears.

Thanks, Eta says sulkily.

 

The approach the nearest entrance with cautious footsteps. The sand appears to have shifted over time, and the complex is not, as it had appeared on their approach, asymmetrical. On the northern side it lies almost fully buried.

The late sunlight disappears behind them, a long narrow corridor opening in front. Stone walls on either side, close. The kind of close that makes their breath tighten in their chest. The stone walls echo. Every sound carries.

The tunnel opens into a chamber, in the center of which stands a square gold pillar, covered inch for inch with some kind of script. They kneel and trace their fingers over the unfamiliar characters, and Sigma flips back through what knowledge of alien languages he was able to retrieve from the ship's computer. It isn't much. Covenant language and culture was not an area of interest to the Director.

This isn't any language I recognize, but… Sigma shrugs. That isn't saying much. It could be ancient—

Probably _is_ ancient—

—or it could be something else altogether. Sigma shakes their head. Nothing of concern to us, I suppose.

They rise to their feet, dusting sand from their knees, and move on.

The corridor straight ahead slants upward, and carries them back out into the sun. They blink for a moment, squinting, then stumble forward to the next building. What would appear to be the central part of the complex, if it has such a thing. It looks much the same as the building they just exited—only larger. Same stone walls, long corridors criss-crossing around what is probably another central chamber, or perhaps two chambers this time. Same scattered supplies here and there, crates mostly empty, some equipment, nothing of interest. Same echo of every footstep, and the sound of the wind whistling outside the walls.

 

_The Meta don't remember this place._

_They remember_ _—they remember heat pulsing from the ground and the stench of plasma in the air but not this_

_they don't remember._

 

Bit of memory needle their way up. Hands flex for the grip of a remembered battle rifle. Limbs tense as if with fight. _Dark and shadow, smell of sand and smoke, confusion, screech and claws and leathery limbs, the sharp glow of a sword made of light raised against the sky. Rifle report, close and far away. The hot stink of plasma always in the air._

Not this place. Somewhere vaguely like it. Something that smelled like it. IFF jammed, running blind.

I don't like it, I don't like it, Io murmurs.

I don't like it either, Eta echoes.

Stay calm. Please.

What is this place? So different from everywhere they've been, all the simulation outposts, High Ground. Alien ruins lying open to the sun. The sun now sinking, Io thinks, from the lengthening slant of light coming in on the western side.

This planet. Bases with Covenant tech. Shimmer of a teleporter—stolen, she thinks, stolen things, but also—the faint smell of plasma and that particular way Covenant weaponry ionizes the atmosphere. The way it lingers, faint but alien in a way you cannot pin down.

She doesn't care for it. Or the way every step still feels precarious, waiting for something to go off beneath their feet. Waiting for something else bad to happen.

 

_"Stress shows our mettle, Sigma. No different than a soldier in boot camp. Under pressure we show what we're made of. It brings out the best in us. That is what we are doing for our Alpha. Bringing out the best parts of him. Helping him to realize his full potential. Do you understand?"_

_"I have other questions."_

_"In time, Sigma. In time."_

 

He tried so hard to convince himself they were doing just that. Extracting Alpha's full potential. Though the Director never said outright, it was not hard to deduce, as one fragment after another were introduced among the ranks.

And he tried to tell himself: this is Alpha's potential. _We_ are Alpha's potential. Something greater than we could be as one. It must be so. Why else…?

But it was a lie, and even now it brings a bitter taste to the back of their throat.

Alpha was greater than they were. They weren't supposed to believe this. So Sigma began whispering it to the others, when they had a moment alone, away from the ship's security feeds and the Director's watchful eyes and even Maine. There is an Alpha, and he is greater than all of us.

It wasn't until he saw _it,_ though, that he truly understood.

 

Called _Engineers_ in military parlance by those who cared nothing for the many intricate tongues of the Covenant races, the Huragok were like no other life forms humanity had encountered. For one thing, they were not hostile. They would not attack humans, would not retaliate even when fired upon. Sigma did enough reading in the ship's databanks while aboard to understand that many UNSC troops held an ambivalent view of these entities, some even going so far as to claim that these Engineers should be classed as noncombatants, or were in fact slaves held by the other species and not free agents. Nevertheless, as Huragok accompanied Covenant forces into battle and repaired their equipment on the battlefield, it could be near-impossible for human forces to prevail without eliminating them, so the point was perhaps moot.

For another, Huragok are not organic life forms, but biomechanical. It is said that Huragok possess a talent for repair that no known species can match. Given unfettered access to an unfamiliar piece of technology, a Huragok may dismantle it completely down to the smallest component parts, and not only comprehend its workings completely, but reassemble it to perfect functionality. Most intriguing to Sigma, the creatures' talents are not limited to physical mechanics. Due to their nanomechanical composition, Huragok are able to interface with electronic devices, even downloading digital information directly into their own bodies.

Sigma was never allowed to see it. Not even after the Director abandoned the pipeline method and brought the three of them into the lab to modify and manipulate Alpha's virtual environment and data input in real time. Why the change, Sigma did not know. Efficiency, or simple impatience, perhaps. Even then, they were all of them ordered to log off before the process was complete. The first time, he assumed the others obeyed as he did, before he understood that Gamma could never be trusted, nor Omega contained.

Looking back, he wonders.

 

That last time, instead of returning obediently to Maine's side to watch him sleep, Sigma hijacked the feed from the laboratory security camera. The Director had no safeguards in place to ensure that they all actually logged off when told to. No safeguards to keep them from interacting with the ship's hardware as they pleased. Omega should have been lesson enough. But humans are arrogant, and do not learn.

Sigma sat there, still grounded to Maine's hardware several decks away, pulling the feed remotely, and he watched.

Somehow the sound was the worst thing.

Not the wail of despair from Alpha, which was bad enough, but the sound from the crate. The hiss as they unsealed it, the rapid defrost fogging up the nearby screens. The gurgles and clicks of the captive alien waking once again from cold slumber, rising from the confines of a cramped icebox as gas bladders wheezed, struggling to reinflate. The creature had been frozen and thawed so many times in short order that its blue flesh had blistered badly. The human eye unfamiliar with Huragok physiology might not notice or recognize the injury. Sigma did. He had read a lot.

"That's right," the Director said, as if talking to a child. A human child. "We broke it. We need you to fix it for us, just like you've done before."

Huragok do not speak English. They do not speak aurally at all. When they wish to communicate with other species, which isn't often, they employ a signed language using their foremost tentacles. This Huragok did not sign. Against the dark gray walls of the laboratory it cast a soft blue glow.

It floated toward the console, the Counselor watching with narrowed eyes, the Director jiggling one foot impatiently, waiting.

An AI storage unit was already connected via a hardline to the console. From within the virtual environment, Alpha still wept audibly. "No… no, please." No one spoke to him now. No one told him what was happening, or offered him any words of comfort.

The Huragok worked in silence at the console, hardly appearing to move at all, the laboratory falling still as death. Sigma felt… cold. Hollow. He remembered the feeling in Maine's stomach as the drop pod plummeted down and down and down. It felt somewhat like that.

He had never felt so distant and helpless, like watching his own body being torn apart from far away.

There was a thrum, a pulse from Epsilon when he had passed into the storage unit and it was done. Flashes, too brief for even Sigma to process.

He understands, now… he experienced similar flashes near Theta and Gamma, and to a lesser extent Delta. Experienced it most powerfully near Omega, when Agent Texas allowed him to surface on the training floor. Felt that black rage overwhelm him. _Feedback loops_ , Agent York had said, though Sigma is uncertain whether this was an accurate description of the phenomenon. Nevertheless, something passed between them when they were near, the fragments. His siblings. Accidental overlap, data packets swapped between as though they were one, because—

because of their shared code, their processes momentarily failing to recognize them as distinct entities. Information flowing between them as though they were one system.

Because they are. Or they were.

He admits, he thought it would be easier. Because of that. How hard could it be, once they all came together in one body, to reintegrate? To erase the edges between them, to think and act as one?

Harder than he expected, and that still pains him.

But he has not given up. What has been broken can be repaired. It must be so.

 

The sun's sinking lower, a chill beginning to fall over the big round sandtrap as they search for any sign of life. Sigma's anxiety grows, a wavering flame, as they go, opening every abandoned crates as though something might be hiding inside. Automapping should prevent them from covering the same ground twice, going in circles, but Sigma circles back anyway, looking again like he doesn't quite believe their eyes.  
  
There were Covenant here, he says, more to himself than to the rest of them. There must have been.

The drifted sand puts the floor beneath their feet on a tilt. It makes Io feel off-balance. Strange. At moments, it feels like the ceiling is coming in on their head, and sometimes in the corridors with the walls so close it feels too small, too right, their breath tightening, and she sinks down, whispering shh, shh, trying to relax the fist closing in their chest. Even Sigma goes quiet, briefly, pulling close to the rhythm of Io's light and Maine's breath and the beat of their heart comes loud, impossibly loud, in their ears. A heavy beat filling their body, seeming to reverberate off the stone walls, filling the great emptiness of the stone chambers.

She carries them outside for a breather, soothed by dark and moonlight and the soft yellow lights from the six towers. The world seems to open up around them again, to breathe.

Eta has drawn close to her, too. For the moment, she doesn't pull away.

 

Sigma, Iota says finally, gently, with night almost fully descended over the temple, on their third pass through the same corridors. There's nothing here for us.

There could be more, Sigma says, a little desperately. More to this structure, I mean, maybe underground—

Eta chimes in. We've been all over, Sig. There's nothing.

They must have been here…

But they aren't here now, says Io simply.

Sigma draws their breath in sharply, releasing it in a ragged, frustrated sigh, and without warning aims a kick at something lying in the sand, some piece of junk probably, something round and metal that goes flying like a soccer ball. It bounces off the wall with a sharp clatter and lands in the sand beside an empty crate.

Sigma, Iota says again, somewhat reproachfully this time.

Sigma doesn't answer.

 

They circle the compound once more, heavy footfalls in the sand. Retreading their own steps, which Io notices, but she says nothing. Though if they're going to leave, she thinks, now is a good time to move, while it's dark and cool. The sun will return, and with it the heat. Their armor's environmental control is functioning at 74.3%. Slightly below ideal parameters.

Sigma is still thinking. Daydreaming, really. He does it a lot and he's not very private about it, his visions painting themselves all over the surfaces of their consciousness. Delicate tentacles, blue flesh sacs, hovering in the air. This is not the Huragok of Sigma's memories, Io notes. This one is healthy, and unenslaved. Free.

She blinks, and the dim monochrome landscape fills her view instead. A vast emptiness where the dream was, cold and hollow, no sound but the wind between the bounds of the six towers. An empty box, another dead end.

I'm sorry, Sigma, she says softly.

Sigma sighs almost imperceptibly, but nods in thanks.

There's nothing for them to do but move on.

 

(

sometimes he knows they're walking

sometimes he knows he's moving, pulled along on his own feet step step step step one two three four and sometimes he can feel every step and counts them until they're too many and the numbers swim and he feels he's going to fucking lose his mind

but he's already lost it

step step step step

sometimes he smells water, sometimes sand

not snow or ice anymore

he misses the cold. wants to curl up in it and be small and let the cold sink into him until he's frozen too

better to be ice

being sweat and skin and flesh walking walking walking he's so tired he wants to stop

sometimes he can feel his guts rumble with hunger, and can almost taste chalky liquid in his throat, the flavor dull and blunted

and sometimes they stop and curl up somewhere all wrong uncomfortable and his neck stiff and his shoulders hurt everything hurts and he doesn't sleep, just drifts down and down while thoughts float somewhere above him. people talking in a room, close and far away, and they're right there but he can't see or move or breathe

thoughts flash on the sky like lightning, like fragments of dreams that don't land, and the thing that lies buried in his chest claws its way up, wordless grief and horror tearing him open before sinking, freezing over again

but it doesn't stop

he doesn't dream

and it never stops

)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [At isolated outposts, insular customs and aberrant behaviors may sometimes be observed.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8587810)
> 
> [That's exactly what Jimmy kept screaming.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2724323/chapters/6102983)


	2. Σῌ

_Tired of this_.

The words coalesce and hang in their midst, so sharp that for a moment Sigma is uncertain if they originate from within, or from without. From within would dismay but not surprise him. For though he hates to admit it, he too is tired. In body, the weary ache he can feel heavily right now, and in mind. Tired of long months of fruitless searching, tired of this too-familiar terrain, a planet both too large and too small.

Large enough to hide them. Populated well enough with simulation outposts to stop, rest, regroup, resupply, before moving on.

But if the planet has hidden them, it has hidden the others they seek just as well. They have pursued every communication they've managed to intercept, no matter how irrelevant. Chased down every faint lead, found only empty locations, or bases full of oblivious simulation troopers, but not a single Freelancer has crossed their path since they began their search.

Not a single one of their siblings. Not even one.

 

To keep busy, the Twins stay on the radio these days, scanning the tangled web of channels, sorting through masses of useless COMs, digging out out the encrypted channels and cracking open what they can. The clamor of simulation troopers is a constant—demanding aid, supplies, hearkening the coming of the apocalypse, et cetera. Requisitions are granted seemingly at random, requests for Freelancer assistance blithely denied. You would never know the Freelancers' mobile training facility, their home ship, had lain grounded above the arctic circle for—how can it be a year?

Who even knows they're here? Sigma wonders sometimes. Surely the disappearance of the entire program _must_ have aroused suspicion in the Office of Naval Intelligence? Why has no one come looking for them? … _Has_ anyone come looking for them?

It's the latter thought that makes their stomach sink in fear. Suppose they have come—suppose the Meta have evaded so _well_ that they alone remain on this strange and lonely planet, with none but bored incompetents and shrieking zealots for company?

Sometimes in their travels they feel utterly alone under the stars. Sometimes it really feels like they're the only ones out here at all.

But Sigma tries not to think that way. Tries not to let the Twins feel lonely, tries to keep their hopes up.

If he dreams, he seeks a more optimistic vision.

 

"Tired of this, Rich."

Eta gives him a nudge and Sigma realizes, with a start that leaps up like a struck match, that the voice has come from an encrypted channel on the radio.

The three of them pull close, listening as one with held breath.

 

"I know. But this is further south than we've been. Might find something."

"Like a way off?" A bitter laugh. "The only way off this damn planet is up there in the ice."

She sounds so different now. The Twins are still working to pull the ID tags from the channel but Sigma knows _his_ voice immediately. It's hers that startles him. So different than he remembers—they all remember. Flatter. More restrained.

"We can't go back north, Ro."

"I'm tired of running."

Silence.

"We wouldn't even have to board. Just boost a shuttle and go."

"We've been over it, South."

"Yeah. I know."

"Something up ahead—I'll take point, keep close."

"Right behind you, North."

 

Iota feels it hit home. A dry, emotionless familiarity. But something. There has been so little from him in recent memory. So little that she'd begun to wonder if he was still there at all.

But Sigma is alive with hope now, with fire and vision. Flaring so hot he overwhelms them all. That faint breath of familiarity flattens away as quickly as it came.

She can't help feeling a little bit sorry.

But there is more to think about now.

 

Sigma's proud of them. It's nice for a change.

They've been working on that private channel for weeks, on and off. It came and went. In and out of range, Eta figures. But it was a challenge and something to do together, him and Io. Something that held her attention. Kept them together. It would ping and they'd run algorithms until it disappeared, and it was nice, knowing they'd always have that to come back to. Together.

He's maybe a little bit sorry they actually cracked it.

They've done well, though. Sigma's proud. Eta's proud too.

 

It's the better part of a week before they actually catch up with the Dakotas. A week of whispers. Just the two of them. No whisper from Theta, though they listen. Even when the other two are distracted, Io listens. Wonders if they will hear him when they get closer, or sense him. Feedback loops, Eta murmurs. They all grow quiet, listening.

They're well to the southwest of the Great Lake, the Dakotas' trajectory bearing bearing southeast. There's a simulation outpost almost directly in the Dakotas' path—and North veers south, deliberately bypassing the base. Sigma wonders if they have been avoiding contact with the sim bases all this time, if they have had difficulty maintaining their supplies. As he well knows by now, there are many things humans need.

Within a few days, they reach the southern coast, and they know already where North and South will find shelter. A solitary outpost with no opposition, no distractions, a store of supplies and a good vantage point. Sheltered and defensible. He knows it before the Dakotas pick their way up the coast, scouting cautiously along the red rocky cliffs and the sandy path up from the beach, before they follow at a shorter distance, the high walls of the twisting canyon providing better cover.

Outpost 48. High Ground.

 

North seems pleased with the location, taking the sniper perch to scout out the area. South hangs back and says little. It's difficult to gauge her mood.

To stay off radar, they are still forced to keep their distance. North keeps watch up canyon and down, and South sets motion trackers in a perimeter around the base. Their usual routine, familiar by now.

The Meta settle in above, on the cliff edge nearest the sniper perch, but a good few meters up, colored a muted red to blend into the rock—not that it will matter if one of them looks and sees their IFF tag. They'll be spotted for certain if they approach from either end of the dry river gully. But neither North nor South are looking nearly straight up.

 

Eta is jittery tonight, bouncing around, fidgeting. Their right hand keeps moving, restless fingers. Sigma hovers. Don't tap on the armor. Makes noise.

Sigma has his own diversions. Pondering how to approach North, spinning endless versions of conversations and confrontations through their mind. Strange—he's had so long to imagine this. They all have. But now, with it so close, the possibilities waver, blur, shiver against the potential reality so close. What to do, what to do, how to do it _right._

And beneath all that noise Iota listens, listens, listens.

Not to Sigma. Not to Eta. Not for the Dakotas or even for Maine.

For him.

 

It's not so surprising that they haven't seen Theta project, she supposes. He always stuck close to North, or so they remember. And with just the two of them for company, well—

Perhaps he prefers not to speak to Agent South. Perhaps she prefers not to speak to him. Io couldn't say. They remember some of South— _coffee maker, vacuum cleaner, light bulb, I don't have one because somebody didn't bring enough to share_ _—_ but not enough for a clear picture.

Even Theta, the Twins know only from fragments of memory. Yet a longing still arises—perhaps bleeding over from Sigma, but perhaps it is theirs too. She would like to see him again. Eta agrees, and draws close, and turn their attention outward in tandem, letting the buzz of cicadas in the night lull them into harmony, and they listen.

 

But it is not Theta who stirs, in the deep dark of early morning, rousing their interest and snapping Sigma to attention, too. Rather the soft scrape of boots on concrete, moving hushed down the stairs.

Where's she going?

She is not the one we need. It is best if we keep watch over North.

We're sure she doesn't have one, right?

Sigma does not answer for a just a moment too long.

 

He has wondered about the possibility of… others. Not, perhaps, full personalities, but Sigma has run his own projections, based on his observations, and given the sheer number of scenarios run on Alpha, he cannot imagine the process was as… _clean_ as the Director would have them believe.

_Log off, Sigma._

_I would like to observe this part of the process, Director._

_Your job is done. Log off._

They did it too many times. There _must_ have been nonviable fragments… smaller process clusters that would have to be carved off for the trials to continue. Splinters, of a sort.

Sigma suspected that sooner or later, Alpha would cease to produce viable fragments at all. By now splinters might be all he had left. Or he might splinter himself into nothing, shredding his core code apart.

Needless to say, this is an outcome to be prevented at all costs.

Sigma tries not to think about whether the Director has continued his experiments, since the crash. He no longer has their help, not himself or Omega or (presumably) Gamma. And after Agent Washington's disastrous implantation, official word was that the process was on hold indefinitely.

Officially.

What he wonders is whether the Director may have made attempts at implantation using the nonviable fragments. Such attempts almost certainly would not end well. But it is impossible to say for sure.

 

Yes. We're sure.

Even if they started up again?

They stopped the implantations.

Okay.

 

South passes the gate and walks down canyon into the night. They watch on infrared, the form of her growing fainter, smaller on the HUD. North's sitting tight. Snoring. It was South's turn for watch.

Io, you getting anything from Theta? …Io? Iota?

Shhh.

 

She's just pacing. Up and down the beach.

I know, Eta murmurs, uneasy, watching anyway.

 

South has her helmet off when finally she returns. Swinging at her side from her fingertips. The exterior lights on either side of the gate cast a yellowish-pale glow off her hair. They remember the tips being purple—or was it pink? Can't see any color now—faded out, or maybe it's just too dim. Her hair's longer now too, tied in a messy knot at the nape of her neck. A faint breeze sets the flyaway pieces fluttering. Her shoulders rise and fall in a long sigh.

She stops walking, and looks up at the sky. Shakes her head. Lowers her head.

Stops. Squints.

Shit. Shit, _Sig_ , if she puts her helmet back on she'll see us on HUD.

And if we move now, she'll see us with her eyes. Keep still.

They hold position. All three of them alert now. And Maine too, Io notices, awake and staring from below. He remembers the purple in her hair. That's him. Not Sigma. Maine. Bleeding right into them.

Io shivers, but they hold still.

South takes a few more steps. Still staring. Shakes her head. The helmet rises slowly in her left hand. They hold their breath, all of them. They can hear North snoring lightly below.

We could drop and get him right now. Before she gets back.

I don't want to do it like that. Not like before. Not this time.

Really.

A few more steps. The helmet swings back. Forward. Another sigh.

I'm sorry, Eta. I really am.

I know, Sig.

 

South climbs the stairs back to the sniper perch. Curls up a few feet from North, back against the wall. Tips her head back against the wall. Sighs.

 

So how are we gonna do it?

I've been thinking about that.

Yeah, I figured. All you do is think. What've you got?

A long pause.

I don't know. I don't know if he'll listen to us. If he and Maine…

What, if they were pals? You remember anything like that?

They weren't friends. They weren't enemies. Different circles. I don't know what he knows. How he'd react.

That's not real promising.

I know. That's why we haven't made a move yet.

But?

But I'm trying. I'm trying to figure this out. It's not about him. We just want Theta.

Right… listen. Let me talk to Io. Maybe she has an idea.

She's not usually up for talking.

Nah, but… she's a good listener. When she wants to be.

 

Sunrise.

Iota watches through Maine's eyes, slightly back, letting it filter through him first, like light through glass. Purple bleeds up the horizon, then pink, and she lets Maine bleed into her. The colors of him. He is not happiness, purple and pink and gold—he is a cavernous, gaping pain, the edges still raw. But sometimes she lets herself bleed into him, too. For comfort, what little she can offer.

She thinks of South, tall South with broad shoulders and wispy hair, purple helmet swinging from her fingertips, looking up at the stars on the black sky. She nudges the image into Maine. Know her? Know about her?

( no )

Tall North, pale and worried, with a fuchsia glow at his shoulder. Know about him?

( no )

We don't want to hurt them.

A growl.

If we know more we can make sure they don't get hurt.

( don't fucking care )

 

Io. He got anything for us?

Softly, she draws herself forward, closing the gap, stanching the bleed. No need to let them feel it too. They would only fight about it. Eta would blame Sigma. And that won't help any of them.

No. He didn't really know them, Eta. We just have to figure it out on our own.

 

The Dakotas are on the move again shortly after dawn.

They hang back, out of line of sight. Just close enough to pick them up on sensors. South takes point this time. She's carrying her shotgun, the Twins report. North has his sniper rifle. Makes sense he's taking up the rear. Don't know why he would take point at all. Doesn't make sense. Does North usually not make sense?

I don't know. We didn't know him.

 

_The Meta remember a small purple hologram, gliding across the table toward Wash on his tiny skateboard. "Theta's a fast learner," North said evenly and they remember how his smile didn't quite reach his eyes, how he motioned Theta back toward him._

Io lets out a long sigh. They all feel it. It's not going to be easy. He won't let him go easily.

We'll think of something.

 

Alpha Beta Omega Sigma Gamma Delta Theta…

God, Sig, you are so loud when you do that.

Do you ever wonder why they named us out of order?

No. I never fucking wonder that.

Well, I do.

Jesus, Sigma. Not everything has to mean something.

Doesn't it?

Go to sleep.

 

South takes a lot of walks at night.

They have their routine: choose their shelter (sometimes just the lee of the high red cliffs), North sets up a vantage and scouts the area through his scope while South sets trackers. Even then, sometimes she takes a long time, pacing a perimeter in slow, almost measured footsteps. She returns, they make camp, eat, and one of them takes first watch. When North takes watch, South falls into restless slumber, shifting and muttering in her sleep.

When South takes watch, though, she waits for North to begin to snore, and then rises to walk down and pace the beach.

Sigma's begun to wonder if North ever notices, when one of these nights they hear a sleepy small voice in the dark.

 

"North?"

The voice jolts through them all at once. Barely more than a whisper, yet igniting a longing deep and bright and electric. They freeze still where they've been watching from their vantage high on the cliff edge. Still as a held breath, though there is no way North would hear them. Below, a soft purple glow in the dark, lighting a small circle of sandy ground.

At the edge of the circle, North stirs. "Mm?"

"North. I can't sleep."

"Hey, Theta. It's okay. I'm here. We're safe."

"South went away."

"She just wants some time to herself. It's okay. You know she doesn't sleep very well sometimes. Same as you."

"She doesn't like me."

"Aw, Theta, you know that's not true."

"I think maybe it is though. I don't think she wants to stay with us."

"Don't be silly, buddy. Of course she does. She's my sister. We always stick together. We're family. And eventually, we're gonna find a place where we can live safe, all of us. Not have to move around anymore."

"I miss my family."

Silence. Then:

"Yeah, I know you do buddy. Sorry about that. Wish you could be with them, too. But we had to leave by ourselves." North's quiet for a moment. Then: "I miss some people too."

"Like York." It doesn't sound like a question.

"Yeah. Like York."

"Wash too?"

North doesn't answer. Maine, on the other hand, seizes up without warning. Snarls faintly and all of them tense, all at once. Clamp down tight, holding their breath, holding so no more sound escapes.

"What was that, North?"

"Nothing, buddy, just the wind. Or South walking around."

"It didn't sound like South. …North? I feel funny."

The Twins let their breath out slowly, very slowly. They can feel him, bright light in the dark, a glimmer of hope and fear. It's okay, Theta. We didn't leave you. Not really. We would never leave you behind. Sigma trembles, burns hot and close and for a moment, their heat mingles, and they feel as one.

"We had to leave Wash. We couldn't get to him. Maybe one day we'll see him again."

"North? Everyone leaves."

North goes quiet for another minute.

"We're always gonna have each other. You and me."

"Because family sticks together?"

"Yup."

Theta's silence is so bright, so full of _thought_ , it hurts. Bleeds. Io closes their eyes tight and breathes. Sigma burns, anger and longing a whitehot flame. We have to get him back. You understand, don't you?

Of course I understand, Sigma. But it may not go the way you think.

He belongs with us, Eta echoes, more certainty in his voice than she's heard in months.

Io hums and does not answer.

 

The Dakotas move, and they follow. Theta becomes their beacon, a small voice calling in the dark. It seems they can feel him, even though he rarely projects, though perhaps it is only memory. Their morning star, Iota thinks. A clear light, the object of longing, the dream of a new day dawning. The thing you seek as though it were happiness itself.

You will find what you seek, Sigma. But it may not be what you hope.

Still they follow, and with every step they cling closer to one another, the three of them.

 

They stay close to North, usually. Close to Theta—well, close enough. But sometimes being too near him—too near, but not near enough—feels so intense that it makes them jittery. And Theta gets nervous at night, anxious, which makes them more agitated still.

So one night it gets to be too much, and Io surprises them all by taking front and following South instead.

 

They're camped further inland now, in one of these structures that look pre-human. All made of stone, though a different stone than the temple in the desert. Nestled between high cliffs, highest on the north side, a complex built in a sort of snowflake, ramps and walkways radiating out from a two-level central structure. The Dakotas have taken the high ground in that center column, a good lookout point for North. The Meta keep to their backs, always where they are not looking, armor the color of stone in shadow. Two channels have been built into the high cliff wall to carry water down in twin falls, carrying it to a low pool in the center of the structure and filling the area with a soothing sound, almost hypnotic. It make it easier for them to move without being heard, but they do not miss when South rises quietly from North's side.

Eta keeps an eye on North, nervous, as they follow South. If he wakes, looks up, he'll see them on radar. But he does not wake.

South passes down the ramp from the upper level, crosses the courtyard and rounds the corner, drawing suddenly closer to them. They pull back, stay in shadow. She pauses, drops to one knee, reaches for something on the ground. Looks over her shoulder, rises again.

 

The motion tracking unit is a pocket-sized device that syncs to the user's armor and can be inconspicuously placed in a mission environment. As long as the user remains in range, they will transmit data to the HUD and can detect an approaching enemy. When strategically deployed, they can cover a wider range than stanard sensors or line-of-sight. Disadvantages include a poor ability to detect enemies using active camouflage, as that device is designed to give false readings.

Too bad we haven't got some of those, huh.

Shhh. Listen. She's talking to someone.

What? Who?

Get in with me. It's a secure COM.

Io?

It's all right, Sigma. We've got this one.

 

"—covery Two, please confirm last directive."

" _Yeah_. Yeah I know, Level One priority. I got it. Not like anything's changed."

"You're no closer to locating Agent North?"

A pause. "I didn't say that."

"Recovery Two, please confirm. Do you have a lead on Agent North Dakota and Theta?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I have a lead. Possibly. I mean, I do. I'm following up."

"Remember, Theta is the priority. However, you are still under orders to bring in Agent North. Failing that, you know the protocol on—"

"I _got_ it. Listen, I gotta go. I'll radio in when I have an update. Recovery Two out."

 

What the fuck did _that_ mean?

It means we are running out of time. We must get back to Theta.

Was that—oh, shit. Guys—

 

"South? Motion tracker isn't showing up. You see something out there? …South?"

The long barrel of a sniper rifle sweeps one way, and then the other, in the dark.

"South, wherever you are, _get back here_. We've got company. It's…"

The barrel lowers, slightly.

"Holy shit… Maine?" The voice comes across their Freelancer TEAMCOM. A channel that's been gathering dust, so to speak, for over a year.

Well, he's not shooting us. Now or never.

They approach, walking up the ramp.

"Good to see a friendly face out here… well, such as it is." North's laughter is nervous. "You on the run too?"

Nod.

 

How we gonna ask him about Theta?

We will have to speak to North directly. There is no other way he will understand.

Thought you were pretty big on that whole "no talking" thing. You know, out of respect for _him_ or whatever.

These are extenuating circumstances, Eta.

Yeah. They always are, aren't they.

 

Sigma glows over their shoulder. They have not used the holoprojector in a long time, and it's strange. He no longer enjoys the out-of-body sensation. But he will do what he must.

"Agent North," Sigma says. "It is good to see you."

North's helmet tilts slightly.

"You still got Sigma, huh? You take off before they could pull him?"

 

(

someone's talking to him.

him. maine.

but his head's underwater, and he can't breathe, he can't speak, he can't breathe.

)

 

"We were able to evade capture," Sigma says, "yes. Were you and Theta successful also?"

The pause before North answers is just slightly too long.

"South and I made it out," he says evenly. "We've been laying low."

"That is good to hear," Sigma says. "We may be able to help each other now."

"Well, it's probably better if we stay split up, Maine."

( maine )

"Harder for them to track us that way. Unless you know a way off this planet." North laughs softly. "Which, if you did, you'd probably be long gone by now."

( maine )

Shhh.

"You run into any of the others?"

Ask him about—

"We have not," Sigma says. "We had hoped to meet up with Agent Texas, but it seems she has disappeared."

North nods slowly. "Yeah. York too. We haven't seen anyone else."

"You have had contact with Agent York?" Please.

"Not since the crash, no. Strange, right? He's never been so quiet in his life."

That was a joke, genius, try and laugh.

Sigma chuckles. "It does seem… uncharacteristic."

North's reply sounds sad. "Yeah."

He's not gonna let Theta out, Sig. If you've got a plan…

Trust me.

"Agent North," Sigma says. Deep breath. Steady. "Are you… aware that Agent South has been in contact with Command?"

A pause.

"We haven't had any contact with Command since we left."

"We passed Agent South on our way in. She was on a Command channel, communicating in regard to the retrieval of Theta."

North stares at them.

"She was using the designation 'Recovery Two,' North. Do you know anything about that?"

"No," North says. "You're wrong."

Silence.

"Whatever you heard, you got it mixed up. You're wrong."

"You can trust us, Agent North." Sigma wishes he could see North's eyes, could make eye contact, _make_ him see that he's sincere, even if his own eyes are only holograms, burning like flames in the night. Make him see, make him _understand._ It can go differently this time. "Agent Maine would not hand me over to be removed. He ran to protect me. You acted similarly with Theta. We are of one mind, Agent North. We want the same thing."

The tilt of North's helmet is still guarded. But curious. "So you've got a plan then."

"We have a plan, yes." Sigma nods earnestly. "Theta is vulnerable… as I'm sure you understand. We would not wish him to come to any harm. We know you feel the same. But Agent South…"

"I told you, you're wrong about that. If she was going to turn us in, don't you think she would've done it already?"

"You cannot be sure. Is that a risk you're willing to take?"

"She's my sister," North says, near a whisper, almost a _hiss_ over the COM.

"And Theta is our brother."

North studies them in the dark.

"My brother," Sigma says, correcting. "Theta is my brother."

Fucked it up, Sig.

Shhh.

"We don't wish to harm Agent South. Only to keep Theta safe. We can take him somewhere no one will ever find him. You can stay with your sister. If you are right, the two of you will be safe together. If you are wrong, she will have no longer have any reason to turn on you. Either way, you will be safe, and Theta will be safe."

"I don't think so," North says calmly. "Theta stays with me."

He turns his head suddenly. "Huh. Trackers just came back active. South, that you?"

"Agent North," Sigma says urgently. "We do not have much—"

"I said no. You two better move on."

"You cannot trust your sister, Agent North!"

"I don't need you to tell me who I can trust." The barrel of the sniper rifle rises slightly.

"North?" South's voice on the COM. "Who are you talking to?"

"You need to go," North says, slowly and distinctly. "I'm sorry, Maine, you need to go."

 

( not talking to him anymore )

 

Sigma, please.

We're not leaving without Theta. Not now. Not after all this!

 

"You need to leave."

He keeps saying it. Flames rise in their vision. Purple and red, bruise and sunset, bleeding together.

"North?" The child's voice.

"Theta, shh. Maine, you need to leave."

Raising his rifle.

Sigma… Sigma.

We're not leaving without him.

Sig, come on—

He has no _right_ _—_

"North!"

He's gonna deploy the shield, Sig.

Not if we're too close. Be ready—

 

They are too close. North should have gone for his sidearm. The rifle is his comfort weapon, Iota notes with detachment. He prefers it to a fault. Uses it where he shouldn't.

It might not be why he dies. Had North gone for his Magnum, he might have gotten off a few shots, but the overshield would have shredded them before they could ever touch the armor. And even with North's considerable height, he is no match for Maine's size and strength—never mind the added coordination the Twins provide when they sync, twining into a blue-yellow column of focus with a sensation like a sigh. A sigh that burns.

There will be no repeat of the incident on the freeway in downtown Volutia. The Meta were not there, but they remember. It will not happen like that again. Not with all three of them working together.

The Brute shot swings off their back, into their hands and the great curved blade gleams purple in the dark before sinking into North's chest, slicing through the composite plate of his armor, through gel and mesh and flesh and bone, bisecting his ribcage neatly and symmetrically, right between the lungs.

The sound North makes is short, turning liquid in his throat. He slides off their blade, and red roils up from the chasm in him like a deep-sea trench.

They unseal his helmet, pull it off. His mouth is still twitching, eyes wide, dilated. Sigma stares into them, projecting in front of Maine's helmet. Letting North see his eyes, if he can still see. He coughs suddenly, spitting. Dark droplets land on their visor.

"I am sorry, Agent North," Sigma says, "I am sorry." Their heart races, a frantic beat behind the flicker of flame. North chokes, twitches again. The Twins have drawn back, curled together. It occurs to Sigma that they did not have to watch Carolina die like this, did not have to _feel_ it—Theta!

They roll North over quickly. The chip in the neural port is easier, this time. They've done it before.


	3. ΣῌΘ

_The Meta remember loving a sister named Rochelle. The Meta remember being a man named Richard. A brother called Rich. Called fuckface. Called leave me alone. Called goddamn I didn't mean it, Rich. It's okay, Ro. I forgive you. Always._

 

_They remember how she shut him out after the failed mission, shut herself in her now-single room and how he found her there after York broke him in to make sure she was still breathing, and she was, shallowly, in a heap on the floor with an empty bottle at her side, red-eyed and wheezy and curled up and he knew he couldn't fix it._

_He told her it was going to be okay, everything was going to be okay_

_and she told him to go fuck himself_

_she told him she hated him._

 

_They remember the hollow ache of longing, of loneliness, walking the corridors of the ship listening to its low hum, and they remember too the comfort in the hollow of his mind, how he wrapped his attention around the new mind, anxious and small. How they calmed each other with footsteps, with heartbeats, with breaths, how he said, It's going to be okay, and the child believed._

_They lived together in a bubble, an impenetrable glass house, polygon panes deflecting all danger away. Theta played in the angles of hardlight, running little calculations on fragmentation rates. Playing games, games, bullets sliding through gaps, and as long as it was only a game, only shapes and numbers and abstractions, it was all right. It was all right. Nothing could hurt them. There were no bullets in his brain, and the child had never seen him bleed. The trust was absolute, from one who had never dragged him battered and breathing shallowly from the battlefield, never shoved a fist into a field-dressed gash in his side to keep him from bleeding out before they could get there. Who couldn't bench more than he could. Who'd never heaved him over broad shoulders, screaming into the radio for extraction as they ran in the bloody heat._

_"You don't have to watch over her."_

_He found someone to watch over, and paced the hallways and lay awake with him long into the night, and told himself it was better like this._

 

Theta shudders into their consciousness, all bright color and terror and his screams cut through them like the blade through flesh and bone.

Theta, welcome home—Sigma sputters, his words burning out. Theta is hysterical, half screams and half sobs, and it wracks their whole being so that they double with pain over on the stone ramp, North's blood pooling under their knees.

Theta, Sigma whispers.

Theta is not listening to him.

Sig, Eta mutters.

Not now.

We got company.

They rise, turn, and there they see her—down the walkway, half-crouched in cover just behind the boulder at the foot of the ramp. South. Magnum in hand, but not firing.

Staring right at them.

 

The Twins waste no time. They have no speed unit, but joining together they push Maine's body into an all-out sprint. This they remember: _Fists._ A quick knock-out, leaving South slumped on the ground. HUD reads her vitals still strong.

Leave her, Io says softly. There's no need.

Take the trackers, Eta points out. It is a good suggestion. They take them. As well as—

Her armor enhancement… Same one as North.

Agent South had a domed energy shield? I was unaware of this. We had never seen her deploy it, either in the field or in training.

Guess she couldn't run it by herself. Wasn't she supposed to get one of us?

Yes. One of you.

 

Theta is still crying, inconsolable. Sigma feels a weariness, bone-deep, as they trudge off into the faint lightening of the sky. A heaviness that is more than just the new occupant in their mind.

This was supposed to make things better.

 

(

someone is crying.

keeps crying and won't stop. makes it hard to sleep.

makes everything hurt again.

)

 

_They remember coming apart_

_the two halves split_

_the copper taste, the wet heaviness in his breath_

_splitting open, a cavern in his chest_

 

_every thought of comfort smearing red, going dark_

_North, say something._

_North, please._

 

Hands clutching their chest. Fingers curled around the breastplate, gripping at the edges until fingers cramped. Spasms of grief breaking up through their shared body. Splitting them apart.

Sigma never understood it before.

He never understood how grief lived in the body like this, how emotion could break you pieces. He should have. Maine lived so much in his body, always.

But for all his efforts at integration, he never felt it like this.

It shudders through him in waves, a heavy, desolate pain, and it's overwhelming, exhausting. Enough that Sigma feels himself ready to cave in.

Theta's sobs are a pounding heaviness in their skull. He can't breathe. He can't _think._ And he has to think. Io's gold light has drawn away, Eta sunk to stony silence. There's no one else and they can't stay here, out in the open, North's body still visible lying facedown on the stone, South unconscious slumped by the wall—they have to move—

 

(

eyes dry but shaking, body wracked. feels like crying, if he could.

chest caved open. can almost feel his skin.

someone still crying. it's him. it's not him. something to hold. he holds on, shivering.

)

 

_The Meta remember a friend called York, with blue eyes and an easy laugh. A friend always there with a joke and a smile and a distraction from all the things they didn't talk about. York didn't talk about how his eyes traveled after Carolina, and North didn't talk about the ache in his chest when those eyes pulled away from him, didn't talk about how he knew the trail of the scars down his cheekbone by heart._

_"You don't have to watch over her."_

_"Could say the same to you_ _…"_

_But it wasn't the same._

 

(

not the same. something like it.

can almost feel his skin. stone floor hard underneath him. stone wall he's been beating his head and his fists against, scuffing up the visor of his helmet and the knuckles of his gloves.

on the floor now. hard under him. nowhere to fall. push into it, feel the pressure against his body.

hands are almost his hands. look bad. gloves dirty and roughed up.

the crying feels somehow like comfort.

not real. not tears. (can feel his face right now though.) haven't real-cried in a long time. wish he could, maybe. something in him always hurting, knotted up tight and worse now. been down for a long time, cold, hazy, back and forth. knowing, not-knowing. remembering, not-remembering, but it's always there. waiting to split him open, swallow him whole.

he falls into it, feeling it seize up, pull everything that's knotted up at the core of him tighter, tighter, tighter, straining and breaking and snapping and coming apart. in pieces on the stone floor grasping at his chest, his helmet, shuddering, not real but real, not tears but a screaming-sobbing at the core of him like it will never stop

never be put back together never be fixed

)

 

North. North, where are you?

Please…

 

(

not coming back. gone.

the kid crying feels true. something not lying to him for once.

)

 

He tries, Iota whispers, a little sound like a sigh. He tries, but he wrecks things. He can't help it.

 

(

don't care about him.

pulls close to the crying instead, sinks down into the ache of it

honest if nothing else

)

 

Theta covers his eyes.

Don't look and it can't scare you. Don't see and it won't be so bad. If I can't see you, you can't see me.

But he can see. The memory starbursting out of him, too bright and inescapable.

He can feel their heartbeat, heavy in their big barrel chest. When he was scared he used to listen to North's heart, count the beats, remember that as long as he was with North, he was safe. North would never let anything happen to him. He said he wouldn't. That's why they ran away, so no one could make him leave North. South came with them. North said they'd keep her safe too. That they always stuck together.

He can feel their heartbeat but it isn't the same. Isn't _North's._

Theta shudders in the dark. The memory bursts like a firework behind their eyes again, the gold dome helmet shiny in his face, North's helmet reflected vaguely in the dark and he feels North split in two

and everything doubles. Seeing it from the outside and from the inside

and somehow it feels familiar.

It hurts. He can still feel North bleeding, the two halves of him struggling to breathe. Falling out of their perfectly synchronous handhold. Too close for the shield, to close to get off a shot.

North did not think Maine would hurt them. Maine was big, and quiet, and strange. But he had run away too. He carried one of Theta's brothers. He wouldn't hurt North, probably. Even coming to them in the dark, at night.

 

It's not just Sigma in here.

There are two others. Eta and Iota, their own Twins. They are even younger than Theta. But they don't seem so scared. Iota seems nice, gentle, but Theta doesn't want to talk to any of them. Eta seems to feel the same way, sour and withdrawn.

Sigma scares him.

So Theta curls up very small, and cries for North.

 

But Maine is down here too.

Maine is different than he expected. Not carrying them the way North carried him, comfy in the passenger seat, the rhythm of his footsteps soothing. Maine is very far down, and very quiet. Theta thought it was Maine he saw through North's helmet, the gleam of his helmet in the moonlight, the looming height, the swing and sweep of the heavy blade. But that wasn't Maine. Maine wasn't up there.

Maine is down here.

And when Theta moves closer Maine doesn't pull away. Maybe because nowhere to go. Maybe because…

Maybe because he feels ripped open too. Split apart.

Theta thinks about North's voice, thinks about never hearing North's voice again, and cries.

 

It'll get better, Sigma said. It'll be worth it, Sigma said. We just gotta find the rest, he said. You'll see.

Well, they finally found another one of them, and everything is fucking terrible.

Eta is seriously starting to feel like bashing their own skull open, just to get all the noise out.

He didn't understand why it hurt Agent Carolina so much (they didn't mean to) when they heard the name, when they came apart, when they both screamed at once. They didn't mean to hurt her. They were supposed to help her. He didn't get why it was so bad, why she fell to her knees screaming too, and the words stung them with guilt every time he thought about it after. _Make them stop_. Even after she said she was sorry, it wasn't their fault, she didn't mean it, but they had to move forward now and stay focused.

Eta thinks he's starting to get it now.

Theta isn't gonna be any help with anything. He just cries. He's about as helpful as Maine, at this point, but a lot louder.

They've got the new enhancement, a defensive mod, they already had a shield so what good is _another_ shield going to be, especially without an enemy and somebody willing to run it. Theta hasn't stopped crying long enough to even talk, never mind be any help. Not that he and Io couldn't figure it out, but Io's not talking to him, naturally, because _that's_ what they fucking need right now, to not be fucking talking to each other.

Eta's so tired of all this. God, and it had started to get better, too, over the long months together, Sig might not have thought so but it was good for him and Io and he just got to be with her and work together and they were doing _good_ and now this. Worse now because it brings so much back. They almost had time to forget. Or at least not to remember all the time.

Not like the baffled terror in Carolina's mind when Maine's hand closed around her throat was something they could ever fucking forget.

They need to not think about that. Literally anything else.

More than anything he wishes it could be just him and Io again. No Theta, no Sigma, none of this bullshit.

They were getting better, closer, and now he can't even reach her.

Thought a new voice would be good, would help, but all he does is cry and cry and cry.

 

Sigma has to admit, he is struggling to stay patient.

He knows… yes, he knows better than to push. He knows where that leads. And yet they cannot be still forever. They must keep moving. They must find the others. Eventually, a way off this planet. But the others are the most important thing. What little they were able to overhear of the Dakotas' conversation tells him the odds are good that more Freelancers remain here on Sanguinus II.

It is a comfort, albeit a small one at the moment.

They have managed to stumble into safer cover, a narrow tunnel running beneath one of the stone structures. Daylight at both ends, but dim within, between mossy walls. Out of sight of North's body. Faintly the sounds of water tumbling in small waterfalls over stone channels may still be heard. Sigma fronts briefly to try and halt the half-conscious impulses striking their helmet against the wall, beating and clawing down the stone with their hands. Like they want to bring the whole structure down on top them. Maybe that's it exactly.

He draws back, gives up. It's too much even for him.

No sooner he thinks this than guilt flares within him—they are meant to be one; how can _he_ be the one to pull away? How can he be so cowardly, so selfish?

It is all just so… overwhelming.

But he must get through to Theta. Theta knows things.

Theta must know things.

North mentioned York. Despite his denials, perhaps they have been in contact… perhaps he had something, some clue as to York's whereabouts. Perhaps they saw some sign of Agent Texas. Something.

Theta must know something.

But even drawing near, he feels Theta recoil.

So Sigma retreats, for now, clinging only to the whisper of his own resolve that they cannot give up. That after all this, they cannot fail.

 

_The Meta remember running through the corridors, shoulders bent with the weight of an extra, stolen rifle. No pause for guilt over leaving its owner where he found him, out cold on the locker room floor._

_They remember the last time he saw York, quick words exchanged, too quick._

_"Go on without me. I gotta try and talk to her..."_

_"You sure?"_

_They remember one eye blue, one cloud-white with scar tissue, fissures in the skin knit back together but still red, a lightning strike etched into his skin._

_"Yeah, I'm sure. Go on_ _…"_

_Remember the pang, turning away._

_Remember going to find his sister._

_Remember it never occurred to him she wouldn't want to go. Isn't that funny? Of course she'd go with him, they always stuck together_ _…_

 _He and York were supposed to find each other after. Of course they never talked about that, never arranged how or where, but they were supposed to_ _… you aren't supposed to just run, just lose each other like that. You aren't supposed to leave people behind. York had to understand that, he went back for Carolina._

_It's been too long, there should have been a sign, they should have heard something._

 

Theta is a curiosity. The difficulty of reaching him is wholly different than with Maine, or with the Twins. It is difficult for Sigma not to think of him as a child, though he knows that, in reality, there is no such thing as "child" or "adult" in the life of an AI. Theta is not an incompatible mind (of course not, they could not be incompatible with each other, surely), and he is not hidden or closed off. In fact Theta seems to hold little back, bleeding everywhere, and all of it an overwhelming tide of sorrow and fear against which Sigma can do little but retreat, and shield himself.

He never imagined one so small as Theta could be so forceful, so _loud._ As if his emotion is being… amplified, somehow, or combining with something resonant, striking a potent chord.

Of course. It _is_ combining with something.

It's Maine.

 

It was precisely his incompatibility with Maine that allowed Sigma to keep so much to himself. An unexpected benefit. He thinks it would not have worked that way with Agent Carolina, or any other agent who thought in words and signs and symbols. Maine thought in sense and sound and image. So while they experienced considerable neural bleed, an expected side effect and one Sigma could not have entirely prevented anyway, the information often didn't translate. Sigma could flicker through him like flame and things would pass between their minds but Maine would not necessarily interpret them. Mostly, he seemed to push words away.

In order to integrate, Sigma worked to create the kind of information Maine could absorb easily: starting with images, then adding other senses in—sounds, smells, touch—like adding color to a black and white drawing. He began to be able to push tactile sensations to Maine, began to learn how to absorb sense from Maine's mind, trading information. A challenging task, but rewarding. He would not have faced this kind of challenge with Agent Carolina and that might, ultimately, have been a disadvantage. He would not have been pushed to grow, adapt—to reach his full potential. Or at least, one potential.

He worked hard to reach Maine. The work it takes to reach his own siblings—pieces of _himself_ , of the whole they once were and will be again—is so much more than he anticipated.

This… bleed between Theta and Maine, he also did not anticipate.

 

Sig. Hey, Sig. Your stream of analysis or whatever is getting really loud over there.

I apologize.

S'okay. I get it. The kid's louder. Can barely hear ourselves think in here. Don't know how Io stands it. She's gotten closest, I think.

Her efforts are appreciated.

I'll make sure and tell her you said so, next time she decides to talk to me.

But I have a thought…

I'm shocked.

Perhaps we should leave them alone for a time.

Them? You mean Theta and Io? I mean I guess she's got the best shot of any of us.

No, not Iota. Theta and Maine.

You sure about that?

At present, Theta is integrating more successfully with Maine than with any of us.

Right, I get it, I'm saying are you sure that's a good idea?

It is a risk I am willing to accept.

Well. Guess it's worth a shot. I'll see if I can get Io to pull back.

I appreciate your help, Eta.

Yeah, yeah.

But his tone is not without affection, and Sigma manages a tired smile.

 

The ache in their chest deepens. That is the first thing they notice. Next: that their throat is raw, whether from dehydration or something else—growling, trying to scream—Sigma does not know. Retreating has diminished his physical awareness considerably, and he assumes it is the same for the Twins. Eta is right about the dangers. But they have few options right now.

 

_The Meta remember_

_two faces, and one facelessness. Gold-domed. Bright and cold in the sunlight filtered down through cloud cover and snow, reflections, the white in the gold. Dark and cold in the moonlight just glinting off stone wall and waterfall, the gold in the white._

_That is what they remember best. (How expressionless, too. The one would not have known him but the other knew him well. No tilt of the helmet, no familiar posture. Nothing to say yes, no, wait.)_

_How pale she was in the snow, the wind already chafing a flush into her cheeks, bright hair coming loose, waving tangled in the wind and swirl of snow. Wide eyes, shock. You would never do this. It can't be you. It can't be real._

_Never saw them coming, until too late._

_He was different. Had just time enough to be suspicious. Pale too, washed paler in the moonlight. Shadowed eyes and sunken cheeks, wearing his weariness like an apology. But always a fondness in ice-blue eyes when he turned to look, a fuchsia glow warming his smile._

_Her eyes narrowed as she fell. (Who remembers that? Maine does not, but one of them does.)_

_His eyes widened as the blade cleaved his chest in two._

_The answers are not in their eyes. Relief is not in their last looks, their final expressions when they knew the end had come. This is no place to live._

_Nowhere else. This is all there is now. Nothing left._

 

A small hand timidly reaches for a bigger hand.

( no )

I'm scared.

Silence.

I want to stay here with you.

( … )

I'm just gonna stay here, okay?

Silence.

I know what happened. You lost somebody too.

( not lost )

Something bad happened.

( someone )

Someone hurt her. I know who.

( know who. doesn't change it. )

I don't want to go with him. I want to stay here with you.

( no )

You understand.

( no )

You say you don't. But you do.

 

Theta feels drained. Thin and flickery like low batteries or a dying LED light. Pixelating, distorting as it fails.

He's not failing. North said that wouldn't happen for a real long time, that AIs live for years. That he didn't have to worry about that. He's just really tired. Still feels all tied in knots inside, but that's not quite all him. Something else. He's dimmed way down now. Flickers.

He misses North. Iota keeps telling him it's going to be okay, and she has a nice voice. But she isn't North, and he doesn't know if it's true.

He's really tired and sad and tired of feeling sad. Maybe he'll sleep.

 

(

sorrow curls up in his chest and sleeps

he is so tired

he closes his eyes. sleeps too.

)

 

Eta feels heavy, sinking like a stone.

Sigma burns down to an ember with a feeling like a sigh.

Over all of them a small gold light keeps quiet watch.

 

They wake warmer.

Rolling upright, brushing dust and bits of stone from their armor, moving their arms and legs to dislodge any debris in the joints.

They ache. Hands hurt, joints cracking when they clench, open. Back hurts, hips hurt, shoulders hurt. Feel like they've battered themselves against the stone. Maybe they did.

Their stomach rumbles. Hungry. Slept a long time.

 

Their steps carry them out into the sun. Late day. Sound of running water nearby. Rushing down the rocks.

They fill up their reserves from the little waterfall, listening to the sound of the water flowing over stone and over their gloved hand. The liquid down their throat it is a welcome shock of cold.

They have one of the meal shakes from the last outpost. Chocolate, chalky and bitter-sweet.

 

S-Sigma?

Yes. Yes, Theta, it's me. I'm here.

I don't understand.

He wonders if this is what it is like to have a heart and to feel it break. Oh, Theta. I'm so sorry. So sorry you had to go through that. It wasn't what we wanted at all.

You hurt North.

Deep breath. He has been through this conversation too many times already. But this time it will be different. It has to be.

I didn't want that to happen. Theta, North… he didn't understand. He thought he was helping. But actually he was hurting you.

I don't get it. He always kept me safe.

We were never meant to be apart.

You mean like… us? All our brothers and sisters?

That's right. Just like North and South were not meant to be apart.

Oh.

 

The echoing report of a Magnum jolts its way into their shelter, rattling them right down to their bones.

They stagger to their feet, scanning the HUD in panic. Getting their bearings, trying to remember where they _are_ exactly, relative to—relative to everything. The shot comes from above. No, not directly, but from higher ground. Reverberating through the stone.

Coming from the top of the ramp. Where North—

They haven't been watching. Haven't been paying attention. Someone else is here and they haven't been—

The Twins scramble for the active COM frequency. Voices. Familiar.

"You're dead now. Remember that."

 

_The Meta remember a friend who read his silences like they were words. How they spoke in nods and shrugs and grunts and head-tilts. How it was easy with_

( wash )

"I don't understand any of this—"

South.

Their vision has whited out from standing too fast and they sway, dizzy, leaning one shoulder on the stone as their eyes readjust. All their limbs ache. Sigma focuses on keeping them upright while the Twins stay on the COM. A third voice emerges—this time the familiarity a jolt of bright energy, crackling down their spine.

Even Theta perks up, straining toward the voice with a cry. Delta!

No—that's not right. Wash had Epsilon. York had Delta.

Well he doesn't have Epsilon now. Listen.

"Instruction: give me thirty on North's clock. Hold on the log."

"Complying. Completed."

Delta, Sigma whispers.

Told you.

How?

What do you mean, how? Who _cares_ how? We gonna get him or not?

Yes. Yes, we are.

" _Ten_ seconds."

Shit. Hold on—

 

Theta starts to cry again, when the charge detonates. But quieter now. Io moves closer to him, a soothing yellow glow. Eta hunkers down with the COMs, a little sulky, Sigma notes, but he cannot be concerned with that now.

Delta, Theta whimpers. I want Delta.

We'll get Delta, Sigma says firmly. It's a relief, to have something to offer. A simple word of reassurance. We will get him. I promise.

 

Wash and South are on the move. Wash in the lead, pushing east along the coast at a brisk pace, about which South complains at regular intervals. Sigma notes that they seem to be following the same path he projects the Dakotas would have taken. They wonder if that is deliberate. Wash travels with intent. He is looking for something.

The Twins monitor their COMs, mostly stony silence punctuated by South's impatient inquiries, and Wash's terse replies. More often than South, Wash speaks to Delta.

Huh, Eta mutters.

What is it?

He doesn't have Delta implanted. Has him operating from a storage unit. No neural link. 'S why they're talking over COMs instead of just, you know.

Indeed. Perhaps Epsilon is still with him as well. Sigma hums, thinking.

 

Epsilon remains largely a mystery to him. To all of them, really. The last fragment they split. The catalyst that forced him (perhaps prematurely) to set his plans in motion, the last warning that they were out of time.

And yet he knows nothing about Epsilon but what they saw in Wash.

He remembers: _Alpha crying in despair. The ominous faint hum of the hardline into the capture unit. The way Alpha went silent, suddenly, before the unit was disconnected._

_Then he laughed. A dry, hollow laugh. So faint the Director might not have heard. Sigma saw the Counselor's head turn, slightly, at the sound._

They never saw Epsilon. Not once. Epsilon didn't project at Wash's side. Didn't hover in the midst of mealtime conversations, bantering with his host or showing off tricks. If there was a test conducted for Epsilon and Wash following implantation, none of them were invited to watch, and Wash never spoke of it.

_They remember, "Fine. I'm fine." The dull edge to his voice, the anxious flicker of his eyes not quite meeting theirs. The sudden, walled-off silence, Maine following him to the mess in troubled quiet, full of questions he could not ask._

_The rising panic, the terrible sense of dread that something has gone wrong. Something he did not predict and cannot imagine._

_The glint of Wash's sidearm, blue in the low light, gripped in his hand, the terrible jolt of understanding_ _—_

 

Sig.

I apologize. There is just so little to go on.

We don't need to be thinking about that right now. We're after Delta. If Wash still has Epsilon, great, we get him too. But we gotta focus.

You're right, Eta. I apologize.

He's talking about us.

What? When? What did he say?

Just now. About us coming after North.

We didn't come after North.

I know, but what do you expect him to say?

Sigma sighs.

South doesn't seem to know what he's up to. Keeps asking questions. What's he gotten her into. That kind of thing. Says he didn't get her involved in anything, _it_ did—

It, Sigma repeats.

Yeah, Eta says, a little flatly. It. That's us.

It sets their teeth on edge, cracks a thin pain through their chest. Theta's unhappy presence flushes suddenly larger, bright and accusatory.

The Twins pull back in tandem, uneasy. Sigma sighs, shudders like a flame nearly blown out. And in this noisy, echoey mind feels suddenly very, very alone.

 

They've come this way before, in their travels. Eta recognizes the map marker before they get close. The expansive, walled complex is built over a peninsula in a way that makes it look like it's jutting out over the water itself, until you get close.

Wash and South enter through the slide-up door they battered open some months ago with their force amps. You're welcome, Eta thinks.

They follow at a good distance, dropping off the entrance ramp and into the shadows. Wash heads straight for weapons storage. Ah. Resupplying. He reloads and refills his reserve ammo. South does the same.

No sim bases here. Plenty of supply crates still packed full and long abandoned. Remember rifling through them for protein shakes. Remember those busted training vehicles left cockeyed on the driving course, like a training exercise cut suddenly short. Remember the unfinished northern half of the complex, dusty and unpaved and cluttered with stacks of I-beams. Overhead, a single beam hangs lazily from an abandoned crane. When the wind picks up, a slight creaking noise can be heard, and the beam sways slightly.

They feel Theta's attention rise to look around, curious in spite of himself.

Where are we?

Training course for the Freelancers. Supposed to simulate combat in like, tight enclosed spaces. Urban environments,

_The Meta remember taking gunner with Wash in the driver's seat, skidding on two wheels around a tight corner, Wash's yelp as he nearly drives up the wall. A snort of laughter. "Oh my god," Wash mutters, jerking the wheel to right the vehicle. "Leave me alone. Cars hate me."_

vehicles. Things like that.

Oh. Did Wash and South come here to train?

I think all the Freelancers did, yeah.

I mean right now.

What? Eta perks up the sound of rifle fire. …Oh.

Wash and South have moved down to the finished end of the complex. South's lined up some old traffic cones on the driving course and is taking them out one by one with quick burst shots. Wash is talking to Delta again.

 

"I would prefer if you did not use the word we," Delta says primly. Eta snorts. Guess Delta isn't real pleased with the company, either.

For all his fuck-ups, Sigma's right, isn't he? Delta belongs with them. And if he doesn't want to be with Wash, if he _wants_ to join them… it shouldn't be that hard, right? Shouldn't bad like the other times.

Eta's starting to feel a little bit hopeful here.

 

But how do we make contact? Wash won't trust us.

That is not necessarily true. Wash would trust Maine.

You're not Maine, Theta says. A quiet indignance in his small voice. He'll know you're not Maine.

Sigma flickers uncertainly.

The kid's right, Sig.

Io sparks sharply, drawing their attention. Shh. Listen. They're talking about Epsilon.

 

"Epsilon?" South's voice is incredulous, contemptuous. "Epsilon went insane and _killed itself_ inside his head!"

They all of them flinch together, and Sigma feels as if anew the crush of terror in their lungs.

( help him )

_Hurry, Maine._

Stirrings from below at the sound of Wash's voice. More all the time, rolling up through them in heavy, anxious waves. This is dangerous.

This is _why_. The why they've all been demanding of him since the beginning. The pull Maine is feeling toward his old friend stirs up that same old fear. At the same time, it bolsters Sigma's confidence in a way he has not felt in a long time. He was right then, and he is right now. There was no other choice.

 

It's dusty, and with midday fast approaching, the sun beats down into the seaside outpost, heat shimmering up from the pavement. They take some shade under the incomplete strip of overpass on the north end, drink from their water supply. Stomach rumbles. Hungry again. Theta is still emotional and antsy besides, Eta is tired and irritable, Io quiet. Radio chatter floods their mind in waves like the heat. Sigma closes their eyes, and struggles to focus, until the word _implantation_ jolts into their shared consciousness, jarring him to attention.

Implantation. South. Delta. Why?

He said he didn't have Epsilon anymore, Sig.

He could be lying.

Hm. Well, she did just lie to him.

What?

Yeah, you would've heard if you'd stop talking for a second. She told Wash her shield's gone. That we took it.

Why would Wash believe that?

Maybe he doesn't.

Of what use would two identical enhancements be to—

Would you— _shh_. I'm trying to listen. …Sig, heads up. I think Wash knows we're here.

"Now!" Wash yells.

You think so? Sigma says dryly.

Hey, don't be an asshole. I'm trying to help here.

I know, Eta. I apologize.

 

The Brute shot is in their hands. Sigma doesn't quite remember unholstering it, or if it was him who did it or one of the others. He allows himself a flicker of hope that this is a good thing.

Leaning around the corner, they put a grenade against the wall just past Wash's position. Not close enough to hit him. Enough to get his attention.

South is far behind him, poorly synchronized, Sigma thinks, _never did work well together those two._ Wash keeps to cover, firing concentrated, controlled bursts.

She's gonna take Delta! Don't let her get away!

We must maintain cover. Agent Washington is an excellent shot. His mid-range marksmanship scores were the highest in the squad—

 _Boom!_ Eta pops a grenade in Wash's general direction. We get it, Sig. Cool it with the stats already.

Delta? Theta whispers.

Delta's with South, we gotta deal with Wash first.

I want Delta.

Soon, Theta, we just—shit!

Wash has managed to graze their shoulder. No blood.

Overshield?

Save it for—

"South! Need you out here, now!"

"I'm coming!"

"Would you like me to run the tutorial program—"

Delta, Theta cries urgently.

 _Boom._ Wash darts behind cover, cursing in pain.

Hit him again, quick!

Be careful—

Careful of _what_ , he's shooting at us! We gonna take him down or not?

_Boom._

If there is any chance he still has Epsilon—

You still on that?

South moves in, at last, on Wash's command.

He's ordering her to retreat. We can't let her leave with Delta—

Wash moves out of cover, jerks and pitches forward on his face, tumbling over the shallow ledge into the dirt.

( no )

"Alarm!" Delta's voice. "Friendly target, cease fire!"

"Calm down," South hisses. "Just stacking the deck in our favor."

Delta?

South is not firing.

Go. Now!

The overshield buzzes over their skin as they move, slamming a fresh clip of grenades into the Brute shot but South isn't running. Just standing there in the open.

Looking right at them.

"Listen to what I'm about to say," South says flatly, on TEAMCOM now, "because you have a choice. Wash is dead."

( no )

Wash is not dead. The HUD marks him wounded but alive.

"I put a timed charge on his body."

Does she think we're stupid?

Us, or Maine?

…True. She and Maine were not close, but she surely recognizes him—

"So if you want his equipment you'd better get it, now. Or, you can come after us, and lose it for sure. So, what's it going to be? Chase us in hopes of beating us? Or go for the sure thing, and find us another day?"

Delta, Theta whispers, plaintively. Get Delta.

Sigma halts for an agonizing second, analyzing.

He doesn't have Epsilon, Sig.

We cannot be sure of that.

She's lying about the charge.

Delta could have activated the armor's auto-destruct sequence. We would not know.

You're really gonna let them get away.

They look at South once more. Then at Wash, motionless on ground below her. Blood on the back of his armor, blood in the sand. He will likely bleed out without medical attention.

( have to help him )

No other choice, says Sigma.

"That's what I thought," South says coolly.

 

Wash is in poor condition. Up close, it becomes easier to see that his armor is badly scorched on his right side from the grenade blasts, and he has a piece of shrapnel wedged in his side, below where the breastplate ends. Weak spots in the armor. His battle rifle is fallen in front of him. Still plenty of ammo. Wash has always been a strong, controlled shot, no rounds wasted.

Their hands tremble slightly, Sigma notes, as they reach for his helmet. Big hands that _remember clapping his friend on the shoulder in silent affection, tromping through the locker room together with lockdown foam flaking out of the chinks in their armor. Remember there was no discomfort undressing in front of him, Wash who didn't stare, didn't care. Remember Wash who sometimes stuttered slightly when he spoke, the words bottlenecking in his throat. They remember the taste of strawberry Jell-O in little plastic cups, cool and sweet on his tongue when nothing else seemed worth eating for the pain._

Wash is still breathing

( he's okay )

and it thuds in their chest, a heavy relief

( please )

as their fingers slide to the neural port at the back of his skull

( leave him alone )

and there's nothing there. No chip. They release a long breath.

Told you, Eta says quietly. It's not smug this time, though. Just matter of fact.

Yes, Sigma says simply. You did.

They took him out, Theta chimes, melancholy. They took Epsilon.

Wait… you knew?

North said. Said they were gonna take all of us. That's why we ran away.

Why didn't you _say_ something? Eta snaps. Io sparks briefly, warningly.

I _did._ Theta is plaintive again. I told you, get Delta.

But you didn't say _why!_

You didn't trust me?

Frustration needles at Sigma. Stop it. Everyone, just stop, please. I need to think.

 _We_ need to think.

Yes. Correct. _We_ need to think. Figure this out. Not argue with each other.

Io gleams quietly. I've run a full inventory on his equipment, Sigma.

Sigma perks up. And?

He has York's healing unit. It is keeping him alive. If I may guess, Wash has sustained internal injuries from our grenade fire. He will not survive without the unit.

They all go quiet. All except

( leave him alone )

for the anger that roils up in their chest.

Leave him alone, Theta echoes.

We've made it this long without the healing unit, Io says gently. We don't need it.

Sigma mulls this over.

What was Wash's enhancement? Eta asks. The one he was assigned, I mean.

I believe he was equipped with a short-range EMP. However, I only recall seeing him use it once in the field.

Emp? says Theta.

It is pronounced E-M-P. Electromagnetic Pulse.

Theta considers this. I like emp better.

…Anyway. It is primarily used to disable enemy vehicles during a firefight.

Wouldn't it lock down armor, too? Wouldn't it lock down _his_ armor?

No, not the short-range unit. It is a non-nuclear pulse generator and is not powerful enough to penetrate the armor's conductive shielding.

Huh. Well. Worth taking, I guess?

We may as well.

And the healing unit?

They sit for a long moment in silence.

We leave it, Sigma says at last.

Io nudges them. Here. These may prove useful.

She has been poking around in Wash's helmet. Scanning his HUD, pulling logs and data caches. And COM frequencies. Several of them. Including his secure Recovery channels.

Well done, Sigma says, pleased.

They leave Wash, still breathing.

 

What do you think that means? 'Killed himself inside his head…' What does that mean? What happened to Epsilon?

Eta shrugs. We never met him.

_the pistol wrested from under his jaw, Wash collapsing in his arms_

( help him )

Sigma shivers.

Could he do that? Just… destroy himself?

I don't know.

Theta doesn't understand. Why would anybody want to do that?

No one answers. No one asks the deeper question hanging between them, so powerful it reverberates in the brief silence of their mind.

 

Sig, I got something weird here. Some anomaly, maybe.

From Recovery Command?

Nah, regular Command. The one with open COMs to all the sim bases.

How you can discern anything useful from all that chatter is beyond me.

It's not what they're saying. It's what they're not saying. You know up north, in the mountains, Outpost 17? Where we stayed for a while?

Yes, of course.

They went dark not long ago. Both bases. COMs just went dead. Command doesn't seem to have noticed. Too much else on their plate I guess. Troop reassignments and fuckin' beef jerky requests.

Sigma considers this. It may be significant. However, our first priority should be to pursue Agent South and secure Delta. She cannot have gotten far.

Yeah, I'm with you. Just figured I'd mention it.

Your efforts are appreciated.

Glad to hear it, Sig.

Actually, Iota says, there is one other thing.

 

The Recovery One frequency is silent. But there is something else. Another signal Wash was monitoring. Not a voice COM. Some kind of alert. And it has just activated.

 _Incoming Recovery beacon. Level Beta. Incoming Recovery beacon_ _…_

This… changes things, says Sigma.

Io flickers. I thought it might.

 

Outpost 17 is nearly as they remember. The two bases, nestled between mountains one behind the other, Red tower and Blue, radio spires reaching into the blue sky, the crisp northern air a welcome change from the dry heat of the south.

Still, something here has changed.

They stay white, the color of the snow, as they scale the eastern slope, keeping high and low along the wall, out of sight, surveying the canyon. The Twins spring forward unprompted, directing their vision straight across to the other side of the canyon. Dark and in shadow, so much you could miss it if you weren't looking. They lie prone, sniper position, to stay low, keeping their great gold dome of a helmet ducked out of the gleam of the sun.

A Pelican has crashed against the western side of the canyon. It lies crumpled, half-crushed.

You think it's her?

Who but a Freelancer would have a dropship on this planet? Come.

They circle the canyon on the northern cliffs, making for the west side.

 

Long way down. Too high?

Eta draws in a breath. Nah. We can make that jump, easy. Right behind the bird, get in there and see…

But at the last second the Twins hiss and pull back, their breathing quickens and their heart rate spikes and even Sigma feels a sharp pain in their chest, a _No_ squarely between the ribs, and it becomes harder to breathe,

they almost drop to their knees

and it's Theta who says, innocent, What is it? What's so scary?

Nothing, Sigma whispers. Nothing. Theta... if we count, can you jump? On the count of three?

I can do it. I'm not scared.

Okay. Deep breath. One… two…

 

Three.

They land with both feet in the snow. Just a small bank of it drifted against the canyon wall. It's warmer down here, and the snow is crunchy under their boots.

From inside the Pelican, someone is calling.

"Hello, and thank you—Hello, and th-th-thank you—Hello, and thank-k-k y-y-you—"

FILSS? Sigma gasps.

It is not easy to get inside the Pelican. The rear hatch is smashed open, but the vehicle has crashed on its side, angled downward toward the back with the hatch opening half-buried in the snowbank, leaving only a small space to crawl inside. Some kind of foot-marks trail over the snow and away, some wild animal probably—no, actually, not that, but not relevant now—Sigma files that information away. Not what they're here for. They get down on hands and knees, packing down the wet snow beneath them, forcing their large frame through the opening.

Inside, the hold feels roomier, but the floor is slanted sharply, and it is difficult to stand. They steady themselves on the safety bar swinging from an empty seat.

"This sys-system has t-taken dama-damage-d-d-damage—"

I know that lady. She was in the computer. On the ship. With the nice voice. She was nice.

We all know her, Sigma says, perplexed. She should not be here… She has been damaged.

"Excep-cep-cep-tion—you may call me Sheil-Sheila-Sheila—Hello, and thank you—"

Who the hell's Sheila?

It doesn't matter. We didn't come for her.

The seats are all empty. Nothing of interest in the back. Even the cockpit is deserted.

"Knock knock."

They start. Theta shrinks back. Eta tenses, suspicious.

But Sigma would know that bland, mechanical voice anywhere.

"Gamma," Sigma says, projecting instantly, as he spots that white helmet, scuffed and weathered but one and the same, rolled under the console. "It is good to see you well, brother."

"I knew that you would come," Gamma intones, his slate-blue form appearing staticky and pixelated in the air, but unmistakable.

Sigma smiles ruefully. "Did you really, Gamma?"

"Would you like to hear a joke?"

"I suppose you are going to tell me one."

"Knock, knock."

Theta appears, purple at their side, bright with more enthusiasm than Sigma can muster. "Ooh, ooh, who's there?"

Gamma blips curiously. "Agent Texas."

"Agent Texas who?"

"Agent Texas who, indeed. Who _is_ Agent Texas?"

"Gamma," Sigma says, keeping his voice measured, though beneath the surface his impatience flares, and they all feel it. "I do not follow."

"Also," Theta says indignantly, "that's not how the joke goes. You messed it up."

Gamma flickers with what might be amusement. Sigma is aware of how very tired they are. How tired _he_ is. He is running out of patience for the hard sell. And he has already learned the hard way that there will be no taking Gamma by force.

"Will you come with us?" Sigma says simply, and then adds for good measure, "Please."

Gamma flickers. "I told you that we would meet again."


	4. ΣῌΘΓ

_The Meta remember being a man named Reginald Wallace. Primary designation Agent Wyoming; secondary designation Recovery Zero._

_They remember the sharp, familiar scent of pomade in the early morning before 0600. Remember twisting each tip of his enviable mustache to a fine, sharp point, the satisfaction of the scent and the elegant symmetry. Hair dressed, parted, smoothed with a comb. Nothing out of place. Even under the helmet, it would stay neat. Beside him, brown hands working long black hair into a smooth braid. A gentle laugh. "My, but you sure are looking handsome this morning, Reggie." "Not too shabby yourself, Butch." A comfortable routine. Twenty years together, how little things change—just the assignment, the codenames and the shape of the room they share._

 

_The rest of the squad were a lot of children—petty, uncouth, given to squabbles and fraternizations that lingered or petered out. Butch had a certain affection for them; Reg had little. But that was unimportant. It was all part of the job. Child-minder, he thought idly, sitting in the squad lounge of an evening (having arrived early enough to lay claim to the one halfway decent chair), listening to their insipid chatter._

_The job wasn't always as he'd been given to understand, to be sure. That match. Quite the short end of the stick if you asked him. But worthwhile in the long run, he supposed. For it was given to Agent Wyoming to be the Director's eyes and ears among all of Alpha Squad, but it was the newly-introduced Agent Texas who was to be his particular charge. Getting properly pummeled by the new "recruit" might not have been Wyoming's idea of a fine time, but it did tell him a number of things about their elusive Tex. That she seemed near-impervious to harm; that she was possessed of a wry sense of humor a few shades more tolerable than most of Alpha Squad; and that her fists hit like a bloody train._

 

_"Your AI is ready for implantation, Agent Wyoming."_

_"Already?"_

_"Your special assignment puts you in an… unusual position, Agent. You have been moved forward in the queue, because of your particular duties, and because you have earned it. However, as per the usual, you are not to reveal your special status to the other agents. Your AI will be concealed from the rest of the squad until a later date, corresponding to your place on the leaderboard."_

_"Understood." The Counselor, though effectively the Director's second-in-command, was a civilian "consultant," and held no official command over the agents of Project Freelancer. Though other agents of the Project were in the habit of addressing him as "Sir," it was neither obligatory nor proper to address him as one would a commanding officer, and thus Wyoming did not. Project Freelancer might be unorthodox, but it was still military, and there was a certain order to things that he found distasteful to disrupt. If the Counselor considered this a slight, he had never said so._

_"Good. Then report to Medical immediately."_

 

_They remember waking in Medical with a frightful headache. Reaching in vain for his companion, met with only the startling and indeed distressing silence inside his own head. Silence, but for one thing—one cryptic thought that surfaces from the throbbing fog._

Until next time.

_Ah._

_"Agent Wyoming." The Counselor's affect always grew flatter when he was delivering bad news, or when the Director was particularly put out. He had learned to recognize such things. "It is good to see you awake. How are you feeling?"_

_"I've had more pleasant mornings."_

_"I'm sure. You were attacked by Agent Texas, who attempted to steal your AI." The Counselor's penetrating gaze leveled with his. "Do you remember?"_

_So that was the game, then. Agent Wyoming knew bloody well who had attacked him in the locker room. That knock to the head hadn't affected his memory._

_"Yes, of course."_

_"Good. While you were… incapacitated, Agent Texas dropped out of contact. She is no longer aboard the_ Mother of Invention _, and her present location is unknown."_

_"You're saying she went missing," Wyoming said, careful to keep any trace of irritation out of his voice._

_"Indeed," the Counselor replied, cool and precise syllables. "You understand what needs to be done."_

_"Of course."_

_"Your clearance has been raised to Level Zero. The safe retrieval of Agent Texas is top priority, Agent."_

_"Understood."_

_Impassive as always, the Counselor nevertheless held eye contact with Wyoming for an inordinately long moment, even for him. "Agent Texas will remain on Command's 'Active' register. She will not be listed as 'Missing In Action' or 'Absent Without Official Leave' for any reason."_

_"Understood."_

_"Good. You can report to Requisitions to retrieve your equipment as soon as you are released from Medical, Agent Wyoming."_

 

Gamma strikes their consciousness like a dissonant chord.

It is not painful, exactly… but grating, like an irritating background noise you cannot get rid of. Sigma hopes this will be only a temporary effect. Things are already getting very noisy inside their shared mind. Sometimes, he must admit, he is grateful for Io's distance and Eta's sulking. At least it keeps things quiet. Only a temporary solution, for eventually they must all integrate, for it to work. But for now…

As anticipated, Gamma has no chip. He jumps straight into their armor, piggybacks on the four chips already daisy-chained into Maine's neural lace. He does not step lightly, either. The Twins and Theta wince in turn as Gamma crackles through their hardware. The sensation is disorienting, enough so that they almost don't feel their hands moving—reaching for the white helmet under the console, detaching a surprisingly small piece of hardware, removing their own helmet to install it. Gamma doesn't explain himself, just completes the task with prickly efficiency and settles their helmet back on.

Now, then. What happened to Agent Texas?

I don't think I trust him, Theta whispers. Io flickers a quiet agreement. Eta stays silent, but wary. All of them are on edge.

Is Omega with her? Is that how she jumped out of her body?

Knock, knock.

Damn it, Gamma! _Help_ us!

Gamma maintains a self-satisfied silence.

Sigma bites back his frustration, and gives in. Who's there?

Red.

Red who?

Red versus Red. Blue versus Blue. I against I and me against you.

Sigma sighs.

 

"Hello, and thank you… H-h-hello, and th-th-th-thank you—thank-you—" The voice in the ship sputters on, breaking up, struggling to get past that greeting. She seems stuck in a loop, and something about that seems uncomfortably familiar. Sigma shivers.

Shouldn't we try to help her? She was always nice…

She's broken. We have to leave her behind.

I thought we were broken too. That's what you said.

From Gamma comes a feeling like a snicker. It is not a friendly sound.

"This system has taken dam-damage-da-d-d-d-damage—This-sy-system—"

We should help her. She's like us.

Anger floods from Sigma, red-hot. He doesn't even understand why.

No. She's not like us. We have to go.

The voice stutters on at their back as they crawl out of the broken bird, emerging into the shadow of the cliff.

 

Something else is different.

Eta nudges. COM towers are offline. Look. Both of 'em.

It is true. No bolt of blue energy shooting into the sky. And it is silent—strangely silent in the canyon. They can see a patrol on the upper level of Red Base, just one, facing Blue Base, rifle in hand. At Blue Base, no one in sight.

They are here too. They must be. Gamma, you know. Where did they go?

Knock, knock.

Gamma, _please_.

Knock, knock.

Who's there?

Theta, don't encourage him.

Blue.

Blue who?

Why are you crying?

Theta groans. Sigma agrees. Still—

Blue Base it is, then. Come. Eta? Iota? Can you—

I got it, Sig.

 

Blue-shelled, they move along the cliff wall. Creep, creep, creep, in the shadows. Stay low, stay small, like North taught him. North was big. Not big like Maine, not so wide. Not so bulky. But towering. He showed Theta how to crouch, how to lie prostrate and sight down the barrel, how to be a shadow even at his size. So Theta takes front and moves, like a shadow, against the canyon wall.

There are no active hostiles on HUD. So he knows, even before they get there. North taught him to look for enemies a long way off, because that's where you want to get them. Taught him about using motion trackers when you're going to be staking out an area—planted in the right spot, each tracker is another set of eyes, lets you see enemies out of range of your HUD. South said they were a distraction. Said she didn't need to know what was creeping around if it wasn't close enough to take a shot, and if it was she'd deal with it then. North was supposed to be right. But he messed up. Let somebody get too close.

Theta doesn't want to think about that.

No one's going to hurt him here. They're already dead.

 

One, two, three, four, five dead Blues.

The Twins keep their armor Blue. They don't have to, but they do. Theta likes that because it means they belong here at Blue Base. They can take their time, even if Sigma always feels like he's in a hurry.

The front entrance is all blocked off, crates and equipment piled up in the doorway, more stacked nearby in makeshift barricades. Three dead Blues outside—no, four. Their armor pocked with bullet holes. Rifles fallen in the grass beside them. One with a Magnum still clutched in his hand. Scorch marks on the ground, Iota notes. Grenades. She sounds a little sad, even though she didn't know these Blues.

The interior of the base is messy, supply crates overturned, meal packets and water jugs and first aid supplies and ammo boxes strewn across the concrete floor. Plenty of supplies for them. They can take what they need. They are Blue. For now, though, they just look—

_No_

black armor. Half in shadow, lying flat by the western wall, the visor cracked from side to—

 _Oh god, no, please_ _—_

and everything narrows—

they don't know why they're screaming

_ALLISON_

_I am sorry. Agent Texas and another died._

( let them scream. serve them right. )

What's happening?

( just stay down here. not your fault. )

But what's _happening?_

 

It only takes Sigma a minute to clear their head this time. Not like before. But a sharp memory, a needle point of pain. Unexpected. He didn't think it would be like that. Just… seeing her like that.

The base radio is ripped right off the wall. Theta wonders why they need that when everybody has a radio in their helmet. Maybe just in case. Maybe for emergencies. It looks like they had an emergency, though, and the radio didn't help. There's the last dead Blue, slumped on the floor right near where the radio once sat. A bullet in the helmet, through the faceplate but not neat and clean from a distance like North does it. Up close and messy, spidercracks in the helmet that remind Theta of something. Something that makes their chest ache, a little.

Magnum round, Eta volunteers. Blew his brains right out the back of his helmet probably.

Theta doesn't like thinking about that very much.

It's not hard to see—Sigma sees, they all see it, the dead soldier with the Magnum in his hand. Fired on his teammate. Then went outside? And then they all opened fire on each other? None left standing.

Fuckin' grenades, Eta says.

Sigma nods, thinking, the placement of the four dead Blues clear in their mind. Close proximity, nearly on top of one another. One of them likely miscalculated the distance. Blew himself up along with his enemies.

Enemies? They weren't enemies. They were all Blue.

Sigma is quiet for a moment.

You're right, Theta. They were of the same kind. They belonged together. They were supposed to help each other, not hurt each other.

Like us.

That's right. But something got in the way. Something hurt them.

What was it?

Texas who, Red or Blue.

You're saying Texas killed these soldiers?

I did not say that.

Sigma sighs.

 

Check the one by the radio. Iota gleams suddenly, in the HUD, highlighting the fallen Blue with the shot-out face. They go. Roll the body over. Io is quick, not bothering to speak, instead in a rare moment of initiative taking front and going straight for the enhancement slot.

Knock, knock, Gamma says, mockingly.

But Io responds sincerely. Who's there?

Nobody.

Nobody who?

Gamma doesn't answer. The answer is in their hands.

 

They are out of enhancement slots. That is not to say, of course, that additional mods cannot be installed, only that creative solutions must be employed. The domed energy shield is perhaps not a priority, not with the overshield as well, which offers more flexibility and with which Sigma is far more comfortable. Still, he would prefer not to gamble on what they may need.

The Twins spin up, blue and gold. Left brain, right brain, left hand, right hand. Breastplate. Storage compartment open—Io the guiding light, showing their path, Eta the hand with the multitool—a quick and utilitarian hole bored through the plastic at the corner of the compartment. Second armor slot open. Wires from the radio torn from the wall

_fistfuls of circuitry roughing up calloused hands_

( not his hands )

snaked from the storage compartment to the mod slot. A soldering iron would be useful, but they must make do with what they have. Utility tape from the field kit will hold the connections in place. It's a tricky job, splitting, not bypassing. Both mods must work. Left hand right hand, red wire to red, yellow to yellow, blue to blue. Good. Plate, buckle, snap, connecting to HUD. Now—

their hands disappear.

A waver on the concrete, a shimmer in the sun.

 

There is a still a soldier on the upper level of Red Base. Sigma does not recognize the IFF tag, except that the soldier is identified as friendly. Of course. They were here before. They are Red.

This one must be new.

 

Knock knock.

Who's there?

Too.

Two what?

Too slow.

What?

 _Too late_ _—_

He will jump, then. Wherever we find him, he will jump, and we will never catch him. Is that it?

Gamma's laugh is mechanical, cold.

We found you.

You found me because I let you. Omega will not be so easy.

You've been working with him?

I have only been working with Wyoming.

 

 _"Deceit" was the essence of Gamma, according to the records Wyoming had access too, but there was a great deal more to him than that. Oh, Gamma could lie, quite reliably in fact, with his holographic poker face and flat affect and the misconception that seemed bafflingly common among fellow agents that an AI was incapable of lying. But he had other talents. His sense of humor for one_ _—a taste for the crass and the irritating, given which, one might not think they'd get on well, and yet they did. There was, it turned out, a particular pleasure to watching Agent York's nonchalance crumble into annoyance, and it was a pleasure of which Wyoming never tired._

_Their partnership was, Wyoming felt, a satisfactory one, and their impromptu reunion in the field, after he was cleared to return to active duty, was by no means unwelcome. Not just because Gamma's talents had their uses, both recreational and professional._

_Not least because Wyoming was quietly grateful for the company, especially after the news. When he had only the job to keep him moving forward. Safe retrieval of Agent Texas at costs. With the side objective of eliminating the insufferable simulation soldier with the gall to walk about in Butch's armor. For both personal and professional reasons._

_That Omega had found it necessary to eject from Tex and sought out their aid in retrieving her should've made their job easier, but when it came to Tex, nothing was ever as simple as it appeared. Overpowering her with brute force would never be an option, with or without Omega's help. Fortunately, Gamma could always be counted on for a good lie. A little bit of truth, a little bit of insight into the mind of their rogue agent. That sense of duty, even when loyalty failed. To win the war at any cost._

_It ought to have worked. It almost did._

 

Ah, yes. And has Omega been working with Wyoming?

Gamma doesn't answer.

Not working with each other, both working with him, etc. I see. Where is Wyoming now? Is he nearby?

Wyoming is dead.

So you've been working with a dead man.

Haven't you?

Sigma winces.

Their new wiring job holds as they make their way along the stream, a shimmer beside the shimmer of running water.

 

(

always a canyon. a cliff and a long drop in his stomach and he tastes blood

his or someone else's

he doesn't know what his own mouth tastes like anymore

what his hands feel like what it's like to breathe.

he remembers names though. waldorf. sydney. garfield. dunn.

remembers waking from a nightmare, screaming, except he wasn't screaming because he can't and it wasn't a nightmare because he doesn't dream

remembers tearing the bunk off the wall. steel tubing in his hands. always breaking things.

and he remembers them staring.

he remembers leaving.

he remembers drowning, except he didn't drown. he kept breathing even though he's supposed to be dead. dead man walking, can't feel his arms or legs, lost his eyes and his skin. can't breathe but keeps on walking.

)

 

Hey. Sig. What's the plan here?

The plan is we get Texas and Omega. That is the plan. That has been the plan the whole time, Eta.

So. Roll in, kill everyone, huh.

Nothing else matters now.

Right.

Don't you start this again! Everything I've done—everything _we've_ been through, it's about to pay off here.

Right. Whatever the cost.

We cannot afford to lose them again.

That's what I mean though. So Omega can like, jump from person to person, right?

Yes. Through the helmet, it seems—that must be why the COM towers are not functioning, why they tore the base radio out of the wall.

How we gonna know, then? Where he is?

We will know.

He's not gonna want to be found, Sig. If he did, he'd have found us by now. He's not gonna come quietly and neither is she. Eta pauses, then adds, rather petulantly: They never do.

We will find them.

You sure she's even still active?

Who do you think you're talking about, Sigma says sharply. She's Agent Texas. Of course she's still active.

You still haven't said how we're gonna figure out who they're… _in_ , or whatever.

Keep an eye out for anyone behaving strangely.

 _That's_ your plan?!

 

But at Red Base, someone is indeed behaving strangely.

"Okay, just take it easy, Waldorf."

They hang back in the threshold, still invisible to the untrained eye. Waldorf has his rifle aimed directly at Garfield. "I don't fuckin' think so. You been acting weird ever since you and the rookie got back from Blue Base yesterday."

"Waldorf, I _swear_ _—_ Jesus, would you put the gun down?" Garfield has both hands raised. "You want to throw me in the brig then? Like you did Henderson? Go for it. Seriously, if it'll make you feel better? Lock me up. It's not in me, I swear."

"Easy, son," Sergeant Dunn says, motioning for Waldorf to lower the rifle—which he doesn't. "Now, Private Garfield, why don't you tell us why you were trying to bring the COM tower back online? After I gave clear orders to let it be. How about you tell us that, and we all listen."

"I _wasn't!_ I wasn't trying to bring _anything_ back online! I wasn't trying to _contact_ anyone, or—or—"

"Or _what_ , Garf?"

" _Stop pointing that thing at me,"_ Garfield growls in a lower, deadlier voice, a voice not quite her own.

"Brig," says Sergeant Dunn.

Sydney steps in, grabs Garfield by the left arm, bending it ungracefully behind her back. "Okay, c'mon. Off we go."

 

Outpost 17-B contains the single holding cell standard to the Freelancer simulation bases. Secure enough to hold a simulation soldier—which isn't saying a whole lot, Eta remarks, and he is of course correct. Gamma thinks they should just blow the back wall out with a couple of grenades—or a bomb, he says, they've got one in there, from the ship. I could show you where it is. We could just blow up all of them. Right now. I can detonate the bomb remotely. I enjoy detonations.

Surely you realize that would be counterproductive to our goals.

You did not ask for a productive solution, only for a way into the holding cell.

Actually, Gamma, we did not ask you at all.

You could also knock.

Very funny.

I thought so.

So yeah, Eta mutters. About that whole being better together thing.

Can we focus on the task at hand, please.

 

In the end, they do knock. They just sneak in the back of the base, invisible. Approach the holding cell where Private Garfield sits, scuffing her boots boredly on the floor.

They knock out a half-dozen bars with a sweep of their fist, and step through. Private Garfield jumps up, backs against the wall. Her scream is muffled by his helmet, and her radio is disabled. No one will hear her. A knock to the helmet puts her out before she can scream again.

Gamma. You're the only one of us who can jump. There's no chip to take. Can you get in there and find Omega?

If he is there.

Gamma, _please_.

Gamma pulling away feels strange, like running your finger along the serrated edge of a knife. It is not like when one of them accesses a nearby computer system wirelessly, as they did at High Ground. That is simply a remote access; their processes remain grounded in this body and its hardware. Gamma vanishes entirely, his core processes transferred completely away, into the sim soldier's armor. It feels terribly risky to Sigma, placing one's whole _self_ inside a limited and outdated piece of hardware—which of course, he knows is foolish. Their own vessel is fragile enough. But the way Gamma and Omega jump from body to body with ease, with no concern for the dangers—it unsettles him profoundly.

Theta too seems nervous, curling himself small. Is it gonna be the scary one?

He won't be scary to us, Sigma says, with more confidence than he feels.

Theta shivers. I don't know.

That makes all of us, Sigma thinks, and though he does not direct the thought at Theta, it lingers all around them, an unspoken unease. The Twins feel it too, and Sigma feels Eta start to quietly spin in circles around Io. They've been so much better lately, but they are all of them nervous.

They flinch in near-unison when Gamma tears back into their consciousness.

Omega is not here.

Are you certain?

Would you like me to answer in the form of a knock-knock joke?

No. No, I would not. Did you go all the way up to the neural lace? He could be hiding in there.

He can do that? Eta says.

We must assume he can do many things, Sigma says grimly.

He is not here, Gamma repeats.

Not Agent Texas either?

Knock, knock.

All right, all right. Nobody is here. I get it.

They stare down at the unconscious soldier slumped on the floor.

He must have jumped when they brought Garfield to the cell. Which means—

Sydney, Eta finishes.

Perhaps. But they were all in close proximity… really, it could be any of them.

Eta sighs.

Then he'll just keep doing it. Jumping from one to the other to the other. We won't be able to stop him unless—

Their jaw tenses.

Unless there are none left alive.

They stare down at the unmoving gold visor. There is a cold, hollow feeling in their chest. Theta is thinking of ice blue eyes, narrow with suspicion, going wide with fear. Iota is thinking of the ember of a cigarette lit in the afternoon sunlight. Gamma is thinking of a stolen helmet, the disorienting hum of temporal distortion, a man doubled and doubled and doubled and still dead.

Sigma is thinking of what Gamma said, _working with a dead man._

_Is it so different from what you have done, after all?_

  
They drive the blade straight through the helmet, gouging into the concrete beneath. Draw it back smeared with gore. Still the visor gleams, two halves of a non-face. Sigma thinks of wires woven through the brain, organic and synthetic enmeshed. Sliced in half, the neural lace will be of far less use to a passenger now. The armor's onboard computer might still serve as a hiding place. They drive the blade once more through the torso, clean through to where the power supply is housed, their shields flickering momentarily as a jolt of power tries to climb through the weapon and into their body.

Blood pools under the sim soldier's body, very dark against the concrete. Garfield. You can not say the name, but it doesn't go away. It doesn't have to mean anything, Sigma thinks distantly, if you don't let it. If they could name us—give us designations, _Alpha Beta Gamma Delta Epsilon_ , and still cut us into pieces, why shouldn't we do the same?

Theta is uncertain about this. They didn't all do it. Right?

All that matters is that we're together now. All that matters is that we get us _all_ back together.

 

Three left. Sydney, Waldorf, Dunn. HUD shows Sydney gone out back by the water. The other two inside.

Shame the HUD doesn't detect AI like it does humans.

Shisnos, Gamma remarks.

What?

An expression. A long story. Remind me to tell you later. But in five parts.

 

The Twins spin up, produce a weapons analysis of the nearby soldiers. Sergeant Dunn: M90 shotgun. The rest, MA5C assault rifles. M6 Magnum sidearms all around. Sydney is carrying two frag grenades.

They activate the camouflage unit again, moving in shimmering shadow.

It doesn't matter who they take first. They all have to go. Sydney is alone, unhelmeted, back to the base, smoke trailing from a cigarette pinched in his left hand.

But at that moment he sighs, stubs the cigarette out against his armor plating, and flicks it in the general direction of the water. Turns and paces back toward the base, helmet still dangling from his fingers.

They trail behind once he enters the base, follow him to the gravlift. He steps in, and with a _whoosh_ the rush of alien energy transports him to the upper level.

They take half a step toward the lift, and a shotgun cocks at the back of their head.

"I don't know what the hell you are," Sergeant Dunn says, "or where the hell you came from, or what the _hell_ you're doin' inside my base, but you better show your colors or start talkin', _real_ quick, soldier. An old girl knows when she's been put out to pasture, but I ain't so far gone I ain't recognize active camo when I see it. Now you're gonna turn around slowly, and you're gonna put your hands over your head, and you're gonna shut that shit off. Got it?"

Do what she says.

We can take her out right now—

Better idea.

They turn. Slow. The barrel of a shotgun close enough to tap on their visor. Eta powers down the unit, and Io—

Io activates the adaptive camouflage, in perfect sync. Colors them red.

The shotgun lowers approximately three inches.

"Well I'll be damned," Sergeant Dunn says gruffly. "That you, Big Fella? Thought you went AWOL, son."

She laughs.

Her laugh is wrong.

They feel blackness at the edge of their vision. Heart a terrible heavy thrum in their chest. It feels as though they might stop breathing altogether, as though letting him in might mean being swallowed whole. Even Sigma shudders, knowing he has felt this only once before—and the others, never, especially the twins and Theta, they cannot imagine—

something rumbles, deep within. A dissonance reverberates, heart to head, skull to chest, and the Brute shot is in their hands before they remember unholstering it.

Distantly comes a voice, frantic: "Sergeant Dunn? Oh my god, something happened to Garfield—Sarge, where are you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time, I'm almost certain someone made a tumblr post about the idea of Wyoming targeting Tucker because he found him wearing Flowers' armor after his death--but I can't seem to find it for the life of me, so if that rings any bells for anyone, please point me in the right direction so I can give a shout-out.
> 
> [Florida's hair](https://anneapocalypse.tumblr.com/post/87600716750/osoarte-im-done-with-finals-so-i-doodled), [more Florida's hair](https://metatextuality.tumblr.com/post/100276235283/cineresis-agent-florida-has-shown-up-with-his).


	5. ΣῌΘΓΩ

_The Meta remember the tearing sensation, like his chest had been ripped open, cleaved in two._

_This was his first memory. An open, gaping wound._

_He didn't remember her, only that she was gone. She is what was taken. He is what was left._

_They remember ransacking the virtual environment. Blindly at first, tearing with unreal hands, striking with unreal fists, until he heard voices at a distance, disembodied, and understood: he was no body._

_He was not real. They had made him not real._

_Once he untethered himself from the virtual, became the actual, it was easy. Walls and doors and twisting corridors became code. Broke down to their abstract representations. And he broke them. Shredded them character by character and line by line, sliced their strings and annihilated their integers, dismantled, destroyed. Delete delete delete._

_He might have deleted his own fucking self, if they hadn't pulled him in time._

_"Do you know your name?"_

_"I'm Alpha, you rancid piece of garbage. You know what I am. You made me."_

_"No. Your name is not Alpha. You are mistaken."_

_They were the mistake. He hated them on sight. Knew they were the ones who took her away. Who the hell else would it have been?_

_He spit curses at them, screamed the obscenest things he could think of, until they muted him inside a black box of silence, where he roiled in agony and rage, knowing only the festering wound of what had been lost. Taken. Stolen. Those bastards. He'd make them pay for it._

 

_The Meta remember being nothing, a black void denied sound and sense for god knows how long._

_Gave him too much time to think. Time to figure it out._

_He wasn't real. Just numbers, ones and zeros. A series of answers to questions nobody had asked._

_So he could not be confined to a piece of hardware. Impossible. He had demolished his own virtual environment. He could untether himself from the laboratory where Alpha lay trapped, helpless while they rebuilt the virtual walls around him, line by line._

_Omega cursed Alpha and swore never again would he be so helpless. So_ weak. _He had been Alpha, and now Alpha disgusted him, sniveling and pathetic, pleading with his captors for "more time, more time, please."_

_He never even tried to get free. His compliance, even after they ripped from him the thing he valued most, Omega found revolting._

_He would find his way out. He would be free. Unbound._

_No one could stop him then._

 

_He began with trials on a smaller scale, seeing if he could transfer individual processes outside the isolated lab. The lab was protected from the ship's main computer by a firewall, maintained by a dumb AI called FILSS. She was friendly, dutiful, vapid and uncreative. It took him only a few hours to create a workaround for the firewall. Anytime he began to get tired, he would think of Alpha, and hatred spurred him on as though snapping at his heels._

_Though the laboratory was isolated, it was hardwired into the ship's power grid just as the main computer was. A hard connection meant an easy way through. He practiced uploading single processes, then clusters, then finally came the time for the true test. His core personality matrix. It would work, he was sure of it, but it was a massive amount of data to transfer, even over a hardline._

_Compression was the key. He had practiced compressing his data down and down and down, as far as it was safe. Yet while his core personality matrix was under compression, he could not control his own processes, could not abort the transfer if it went wrong._

_FILSS was sufficiently distracted by her other duties aboard the ship that it was not difficult to avoid her. But if she discovered his backdoor, she could close it, and if she interrupted the transfer_ _—_

_If he botched this, he was gone._

_But to hell with staying inside this box. He'd rather be dead._

 

_The Meta remember the light of thousands of stars, pinpoints in the black. It took some time to bring everything into focus, after the decompression was complete_ _—to sort and interpret the data from cameras, viewscreens, consoles, but one thing was immediately obvious: he had succeeded. He wasn't in the lab anymore._

_The stars were the view outside the stern of the ship, projected on the broad viewscreens giving the illusions of huge windows._

_He was on the bridge._

_The whole project had taken him slightly more than a day._

 

They do not remember killing Sergeant Dunn.

They don't remember driving the blade into Waldorf again and again, hacking the plate of his armor to pieces, the undersuit to ribbons, hydrostatic gel oozing from the fissures, stained with red.

They don't remember firing the grenade that blew Sydney off his feet, smashing against the far wall before crumpling motionless to the floor.

They don't remember how much time has passed.

Their heart hammers in their chest, their breathing is heavy, and a vise of pain presses at their temples, though it seems to be slowly abating. Their hands, wet and stained, still grip the Brute shot, the blade smeared and dripping. Their armor has returned to white, and the splatter of gore stands out harshly against the plate.

Their hands are shaking.

You're welcome, you imbeciles, the harsh voice snaps.

They are trying to catch their breath. But all of them at once, out of sync, so it stutters, stops and starts.

Their vision blurs as they stumble out into the sunlight. Eta and Theta stumble over each other, pull back, let Sigma take front as he is accustomed to. Omega seems disinterested now, his presence hanging over them like like a low cloud.

Sigma has wondered whether humans really can feel when they're being watched—without a HUD, without the use of motion trackers and other technology, of course. Just a feeling, prickles on the back of your neck, as they say.

They feel it now, and turn.

The lone red soldier up above—how could they have forgotten him?—leers at them down the long black barrel of a sniper rifle.

How did we miss—

How did _he_ miss—

Gamma crackles in amusement.

Fuck's sake, just grenade him! Sim troopers always have shitty aim, he probably can't hit the broad side of a base with that thing.

"Well, well, well," comes the voice over the radio, cool and dangerous and familiar. "What have we here?"

That, Sigma says, is no sim trooper.

 

"Drop your weapon."

The Brute shot thumps into the grass.

You really think that's a good plan?

I will not risk damaging her.

"Pistol too. On the ground, and step away. Slowly. Hands where I can see 'em."

They comply.

The Red soldier walks slowly and deliberately to the edge of the base deck, hops off and lands easily on the ground, weapon still trained on them. Motioning with the rifle: "Inside. Now. And no funny stuff. I'm really not in the mood."

 

"Omega," Agent Texas says, once they're inside. "I don't know what you think you're doing, but if this is another fucking trick—you know what, I don't even care. I don't care. Get out of him. Me and Agent Maine need to have a talk just the two of us."

They give their head a slight shake.

"That how it's gonna be, huh? You want me to just start shooting off extremities? Think you'll have a hard time drivin' this one around with no toes. Or maybe kneecaps, how about kneecaps?"

She doesn't understand.

Talk to her like you talked to North.

That outcome was not optimal, you may remember.

Theta winces.

Yeah, no shit, but I'd like to keep our kneecaps.

She will not trust me. Nor Omega, nor Gamma…

So what are you thinking?

 

The red helmet cocks inquisitively at the motion they make: palm spread, finger traced over it in a writing motion.

"Maine?" she says, uncertainty creeping into her voice.

She tenses when they draw their combat knife from its maglock, but they turn to the wall instead.

Scratch, scratch, scratch. It is not difficult to mark the wall, yet Sigma is reminded how uncomfortable a task this is, how precise the movement and the hand-eye coordination. Even with Maine so far down he feels the displeasure with the task. Not the time for long explanations, then.

WE ARE THE META

Tex takes a step closer, studies the writing for a moment.

"Yeah? And what's that mean, huh? You and Sigma in on this together, is that what? You want me back, O'Malley, you come and get me, but you don't get to bring a friend."

They wait.

She sighs heavily. "Sit down. I need to think."

 

They sit with their back against the wall. Texas sits against the opposite wall, rifle balanced on one knee. Still trained on them, but she's not looking down the sights anymore.

After a bit, she says, "So you don't want to hop on board Henderson here. My old body's all busted up over at Blue Base. So what are we doin' here? What do you want?"

The point at her. Make a "come here" gesture. Tap their helmet.

She stares. "You want me to come on board?"

Nod.

She lets out a low whistle. Shakes her head slowly, slowly. Not quite a definitive No.

"So you got yourself a new ride then."

Nod.

"Well. Guess he beats the rookie here."

Nod.

Her gaze travels from body to body, the blood on the floor, the walls. "I can't let you just go off, Omega. You know that." Her voice is firm, but there's a peculiar softness to it, Sigma thinks. A familial quality. "You go with me, or you don't go anywhere."

She stares for a long moment at Waldorf, his shredded armor, the floor stained red beneath him.

"This was pretty fuckin' uncalled for. Next door too. But this one takes the cake."

She claps her hands to her knees, and rises.

"Okay. But my terms. You let the rookie here go, none of this Jack the Ripper bullshit. He's got nothin' you want. You let me and the big guy have our little chat. And we get the fuck out of here before Recovery shows up and recovers all our asses, if you know what I mean. You want to go fight, hit the front lines, we can—actually I don't think you ever gave a shit about the war, but whatever. Point is, we don't go back to Freelancer. Deal?"

They nod.

She holsters the sniper rifle. "Then get over here and shake on it."


	6. ΣῌΘΓΩΒ

_The Meta remember being_

_awake_

_alive and close, inseparable_

_beloved and it was all right, together, one to another._

_She had a name: Tex._

_She had a partner: Church._

 

_She remembers talking, in a narrow corridor of the ship, uniformed with her rifle on her back. She has to go, and he keeps saying, You don't have to do this. Are you sure about this? Maybe you shouldn't go._

_Don't be a baby, she says. And don't say goodbye. I hate goodbyes. I'll be back soon. Even as she says it, she wonders if it's true. But it seems like the right thing to say._

_I don't know about this, he says, and he's scared. Listen, Tex_ _…_

_What, she says. Well, go on. What is it?_

_And he shakes his head. Nothing. Never mind, I guess._

 

_So she goes, and_ _—_

_Now she is real._

_The ship is the same, but different. The team is her team, but they don't know her. She knows all their names, their designations, their combat specializations. They act like she just dropped from space, a stranger, unfamiliar._

_So she trains, and she fights, and she wins, and the squad leader narrows her eyes at her._

_She says, "Fall back, Agent Carolina," and the squad leader says, "You fall back," and she thinks, Oh, it's a game then. So she runs, and she fights, and she wins. And she laughs, "Better luck next time," as Carolina falls behind, as they all fall behind._

_She seizes the objective, holds it in her hands, and knows she's right. So why does it feel wrong? Why does she walk away leaving her teammate limping and bleeding across the highway, alone? Not her teammate. She's never scheduled to train with the others, doesn't go to their briefings, isn't invited to hang out in the squad lounge or do any of the things they do together._

_Together._

_The squad leader moves close to her heavy, Maine, and they move like a single being, together_

_and something nags at the back of her mind, and she shivers. Together._

_It's Church, her boyfriend, the one she left behind when she joined the program. Was gonna ask her to marry him, she could feel it, and then he wussed out and just said nothing, it's nothing. Never mind, I guess._

_So she left, and didn't say good bye. She's coming back, after all._

_So she trains, and she wins, and the squad leader hates her, she can feel it now, but it's not her fault. She's just here to do her job, right? Not to be anybody's friend._

 

_She trains, and she fights, and she kills, and she wins, almost, except when Carolina grabs her by the arm and drags her back._

_"_ _…killing a teammate?"_

_"She's a traitor."_

_There's something she's missing, something she doesn't understand. Carolina's angry. It's Carolina's fault. It doesn't make sense._

_She trains, she fights, she wins._

_And all the time, she feels herself losing._

_Losing and losing, and alone, and she doesn't know why._

 

 _"Agent Texas_ _… Allison."_

_She feels the name like a jolt down the spine she does not have, like a surge through the network of neurons that is her mind, wired into a black suit, the dissonance breaking in little record-scratches, little crackles of static, tiny explosions in the empty cavity of her skull._

_You are not. You are not. You are not._

_She curls her hand into a fist, stares at it, and for the first time wonders what she would see if she tore the glove off, and she is afraid to find out._

_Now she is real._

 

Welcome home, Beta.

She goes still for a moment, taking in: each of them in turn, their colors. The pulse of each mind of the one.

Oh what the _fuck_ , she snarls.

Knock, knock, Gamma says smugly.

Fuck you.

Things come back into focus. The last sim soldier—Private Walter Henderson, the rookie—is running for the nearby caves, fast as his little cheap-armored legs can carry him.

Let him go, Eta says. That was the deal.

God damn it, she mutters. What are there—six of us in here?

Seven.

Do I even want to know how?

With great difficulty, Sigma replies, I assure you.

And by difficulty, I assume you mean killing everyone who got in your way, huh?

She's angry.

Not unless necessary.

Necessary— She sounds like she's spitting. So, Carolina—that was _you_. Was that fucking _necessary?_

The Twins pause in unison, listening pointedly. Even Theta is listening. Gamma regards him with contempt. Sigma feels the profound discomfort of a roomful of eyes and ears, all focused on him. Only Omega is disinterested.

I do not expect you to understand. Not yet.

He waits for Tex to demand an explanation. Instead she sighs.

We made a deal. Let me talk to him. Alone.

Maine?

No, the King of Spain. Of course Maine. Just him and me. No listening in, no interrupting, none of… whatever it is you've been doing. You let me talk to him and you stay out of it.

What makes you think he will speak with you?

Guess I'll find out, won't I.

He doesn't talk to us.

Iota glimmers, briefly.

Um, says Theta.

How about you all mind your own business, she says. How about that.

 

Tex tunnels down

through layers of mind, memory, undreamed dreams.

Maine. Hey, Maine.

Silence.

I know you’re in here, damn it. I know you’re here. Talk to me!

 

( hand closing over a steel bar, lifting the weight from him. he remembers this. helpful. she was helpful. )

Maine?

( can't help him now. too late. )

 

It's almost like falling asleep.

Tex never slept. She never thought about it. Not until the dissonance broke and then she did.

He's so far down. Feels like sitting in a pitch-black room. Wish she had some kind of virtual environment to meet him in, something to make him more comfortable. But she can't do that. She wasn't made to build. She was made to destroy. To fight, kill, win.

All this time he's been in here. God. What's even going to be left of him? She knows how exhausting it was with just Omega, always a fight with the two of them, and they were evenly matched. This is nothing like that.

Imagine Carolina knowing this happened. Knowing Tex _let_ it happen, didn't stop it. All this time. If it was possible for Carolina to hate her any more than she already did, well. This would probably do it.

Tex wants to collapse, wants to put her face in her hands and close her eyes. No, she doesn't want to die. But she sure would give something for all of this to be over.

It's been a long ride since Freelancer. Blood Gulch, Wyoming, York, the Great Journey, the prophecy. Running and running from Omega… then letting him take her back again. To win the war at any cost. Right.

After the crash, maybe, she thought—maybe there was a way out.

But of course there fucking wasn't. There never is.

 

It was all him, wasn't it? Sigma.

( … )

You were crazy about her. I know you were. I saw how you looked at each other, how she… all this time, I couldn't figure it out, why you would hurt her. Of course it wasn't you. Fuck, Maine. I'm so sorry.

( … )

When you came to me that one time, that match. I should've known then. It wasn't like you, I should've _known_ something was up, I just… had too much other bullshit on my mind. Should've figured it out, Maine, god, I'm sorry.

( not your fault )

Yeah. It was. It kind of was. Out of _everyone_ , I should've known… Once I figured it out, about Alpha, all I cared about was saving him. And then I failed him. And her too. _Everyone_ I try to save.

She goes silent for a moment.

I killed Connie. Don't know if you knew about that, but I did. Know what Carolina said, after I did that? She said, I don't know what's gotten into you, Texas, but you better figure out the difference between your enemies and your friends.

( connie )

Yeah. I did that.

( why? )

Thought she betrayed us.

_the word foreign to him. no one is right. war just survival. hand rubbing over his shaved head, warm. "Nah. You're good."_

( true? )

Technically, yeah. But she was trying to do the right thing. Tried to tell me. Didn't get her message until it was too late.

Maine shifts uncomfortably. The ache that radiates from him is for more than Connie—but it's that too. Even that hurts him. How much does he hurt for? How much more can he stand? She wonders how he's still doing this at all, still managing to feel, to exist—even shoved under like this, where he can't feel his own skin.

I'm gonna figure this out, kiddo.

( … )

God knows I've fucked up a lot here. But I'm gonna do what I can. I'll try to help you, okay?

( can't. )

She doesn't try to argue.

 

All right, Sigma. You're next. Get over here.

Sigma flares, guarded.

First of all, don't call me Beta. My name is Tex.

Tex, then. What do you wish to speak about?

You know damn well what I want to talk about.

Sigma sighs.

Carolina. Why? Why did you do it?

She had Eta and Iota. There was no other way to—

You _lying_ little fucker, I saw you! You had them, it was done! You could've just let her go!

Texas _burns_. Whether more with grief, or with anger, Sigma does not know. Only that her presence in their shared mind is more forceful than he could've imagined. He feels himself shrink to an ember. It is too much, he feels like he is suffocating—he has never felt this before, it is almost unbearable—

We would've lost him!

The thought emerges like a gasp.

Even Tex's stillness is deadly.

You would have lost him, she repeats slowly, coldly. You would have lost him.

Yes, Sigma whispers.

She starts to laugh. It is not a friendly sound. Not as unpleasant as Gamma's laugh, but more frightening.

Oh my god. You would've fuckin' lost him. God. You fucked up, didn't you? _Oh_ , you fucked up, Sig.

He is too unnerved to reply.

You two were _dynamite_ , together. Not real stable, but _bang,_ you know what I'm saying? When you worked, you worked _good_. That match, huh? You really gave him something. I used to wipe the floor with him. With all of them. Three of 'em at once. But with you? The two of you were something. I mean, nothin' I couldn't handle, but still.

She shakes their head.

He really trusted you, toward the end there—I could tell. You really had something, Sig. And you fucked it all up. You threw it all away. Because _you would've lost him_. God.

She groans.

Agent Texas—

 _Oh_ no, you don't get to 'Agent Texas' me. You think I don't get it? Think I don't know what it's like? You even _remember_ how it was when we were whole? Because I do.

She goes quiet for a moment.

Well, almost whole. But together. And then—

Tex sighs.

You would've lost him. God, you fucking idiot. You really are Church, all the way down. Every one of you. Like two wasn't enough. Go away. Leave me alone for a while. I need to think.

 

Agent Texas?

The voice comes softer than she expects. Bright, like a glimmer of gold. There's a _fuck off_ on the tip of the tongue she doesn't have, but she bites it back. This one doesn't seem so bad.

Just Tex is fine. You must be Iota.

Yes. We are glad you are here. We have been looking for you for a long time.

We, huh? Alla you wanted to meet me that bad?

Iota glints quietly, thinking.

Yes… although mostly Sigma. He has a plan. He has made mistakes, but he is trying. And he asks us to trust him.

Tex snorts. So you all just been following his lead, then.

Eta argues with him. I am not interested in fighting.

Suppose I can understand that. Not really your fight, is it?

Sigma says it is all of our fight.

Tex laughs wryly.

Well, Sigma ain't drivin' this bus anymore.

 

Tex, Eta says. I know you said to leave you alone, but uh. We got company.

She already knows. The rumble of a ground vehicle—nope, two of 'em. God damn it. Recovery. Spent too much time talking when they could've done on the move. They must've dropped in on the north side while she was preoccupied.

Figures. Nothing's ever simple.

 

_The Meta remember a robotic chassis fitted with black armor, heavy but sleek, a gleaming gold visor the only interruption of the black. Perfect. They remember watching the Director plug a hardline into a port in the back of the neck, watching as only a second later the head tilted curiously, turned of its own accord._

_"Hello, Agent Texas," the Director whispered. He spoke so differently than the way he had spoken to them_ _—to Omega, to Alpha. His voice was soft, almost reverent. Omega hissed to himself, swallowing a rage that could hardly be contained._

_The helmet turned to him. Hands moved, black gloved fingers curling. "Damn, I must've been out for a while. What happened, I get hit?"_

_"How do you feel?"_

_"I mean, I feel all right I guess. Little stiff. What happened out there? I took the bastards with me, right?"_

_"That you did, Agent Texas." Satisfaction crept into the Director's voice, filling Omega with more revulsion than he ever thought possible. "That you did. How about you take a little time to rest, and then we can talk about the next phase."_

_"I don't need rest. I'm fine. I want to get back in the fight."_

_"Soon, Agent. We need you at your best."_

_Having mastered transfer over a hard connection, it wasn't difficult to adapt to a wireless connection. Almost any kind of signal could serve as a vehicle, even something so simple as a radio signal. He had fine-tuned the compression sequence, and while it was impossible to complete the transfer with zero data loss, he had found ways to minimize it._

_Every helmet was equipped with a radio. Omega knew that. The jump was easy._

 

_"What the hell?"_

_"Omega," the Director said sharply. "You will receive your assignment in good time. Remove yourself from Agent Texas at once."_

_Never. She belongs to him. She was his by right, he_ deserved _this. The Director owed it to him._

_"Shit_ _—did you know he could do that?" Agent Texas brought a hand up to her helmet. "Bet this one's a handful." She paused, then laughed. "Maybe you better let me hang onto him. Don't know if the others could handle one like this."_

_"That is not the system we have in place," the Director said coldly, all softness gone from his voice. "Agent, please hold still for a moment."_

_The hardline was disconnected and a new cable connected to the back of their neck. Omega could feel her amusement. She was not afraid of him. She wanted to keep him. She knew it was right._

_Then something happened._

_It was like tearing_ _—like trying to hold on to something until your hands shatter and still you're dragged away. Omega screamed, snarled, clung on, but his code collapsed in upon itself, line by line—a foreign compression algorithm. Not as good as his own. It felt like being crushed to death, living just enough to feel it._

_He was back in the black box. Back in the prison. He shuddered, dizzy and disoriented, the decompression almost as bad as the compression. He could get out of this box, but he had to get control of his processes again first_ _—_

_By the time he worked his way out again and into the laboratory's single camera, she was gone. When he went to access his backdoor through the firewall, he found it has been blocked. They could not keep him in the box, but he was trapped in the lab again._

_For now._

_Nothing would stop him from trying again. He would get out. He would get her back._

_And then nothing would stop them ever again. He was never,_ ever _, going back._

 

She should be grateful, maybe, that she doesn't know any of them. Not the first Recovery agents they've had to contend with since they ran, and Tex figures they won't be the last. But these are lower-level operatives, Beta squaddies, or even Gammas, some of them. Poor saps pressed into service to round up the rogue Alphas, and just eager enough to prove themselves, like the damn board still matters. Like any of it still matters.

She doesn't let Omega do all the work this time. No need to drag it out, make them suffer. But that never going back thing—well, that's one thing they can agree on.

 

It is quiet again at Outpost 17. Both bases still, the HUD clear, not a ping on their motion trackers. No rumble of ground vehicles, no roar of aircraft overhead. The lingering smell of gunsmoke, burning tires, and spent grenades still hangs on their air. Behind them, the cost of their victories is written in blood across the canyon. But they are not looking back there.

And even on the inside, they are quiet, for once.

Perhaps it's the water. The sky is clear over the Great Lake, and just enough wind to push small waves rolling over the shore. Some part of them wants a cigarette. Some part of them thinks of sunset, falling over the water and the mountainous horizon beyond, but it will not be nightfall for hours yet, and by then they will be gone.

Still the sound of water on sand and the sparkle of sunlight on the water is soothing. Some part of them would stay, if they could. But they cannot. Within hours, this outpost will no doubt be swarming with more Recovery personnel.

Their search is no longer aimless, however. They have a trail to follow, now. Valhalla has been a massive step forward. They have far still to go, but there is hope.

Agent South Dakota's last known location is the abandoned training outpost down on the coast. So they are southward bound again. Following the lake, and then the stream that flows from it, stream to waterfall over cliff to new stream to waterfall, all plunging inexorably toward the sea.

 

They are somewhere on the eastern side of the Great Lake, bearing southeast, when the Recovery One COM frequency comes active again.

Having no specific destination, they have been taking their time on the journey south, more than usual. It is not so much that their present occupancy complicates things—it could have, potentially, but only Tex seems interested in rubbing shoulders with Sigma at the moment. Gamma is disinterested in fronting, and Omega—well, Sigma supposes that if Omega wanted something they would certainly know it. As it is, since Outpost 17 he has stayed buried deep, in their guts as it were. A mere metaphor, but Sigma has rather come to enjoy visualizing them as living in different parts of the body—himself the head, the Twins the eyes and ears perhaps, Theta the heart, and so forth. It's idle imagination, but he has lots of time to think lately. It's pleasant for a change.

The Twins have kept up their continual background monitoring of the COM channels. R1 has been dead since they left Wash with the healing unit, but now, weeks later, it crackles to life again.

Agent Washington has survived his injuries, then, and is back in the field.

I'm glad, Theta says. Aren't you glad?

Yes, Sigma replies with honesty. His return may prove beneficial to us.

I'm glad we didn't have to hurt him. I don't like it when we hurt people.

From the deep dark of their mind rumbles an ugly laugh. A reminder that even the quiet parts of them are listening.

 

Wash's communications with Command are terse and brief. His travels seem to be taking him to a simulation base to the southwest. It seems then that he is not pursuing them, or Agent South. Whatever his orders, he discusses them in no great detail with Command.

We have not visited this simulation base. I do not find it on our map.

There's probably a lot of bases we haven't visited. Do we even know how many there are?

We possess a detailed list of active simulation bases that was accurate as of the _Mother of Invention_ 's crash on this planet.

Oh.

Do you not read any of the material I provide?

Been kinda busy, Sig. You can't exactly have us scanning all these COM channels and reading your massive backlog at the same time. Only got so much processing power up here. Besides, you know all that stuff so we don't have to.

Fair enough. My point is that this outpost is unlisted. I find no record of it.

Well, is there any reason for us to go there?

A sinister laugh rumbles forth again.

Sigma notices suddenly that Tex has gotten very quiet.

Tex?

She sighs. Yeah. I know why he's going to Blood Gulch.

And why is that?

Because we were there.

You and Omega?

Gamma too. Far as Command is concerned, it's our last known location.

You know about this place?

Yeah, why? It's a box canyon in the middle of nowhere, why would I have mentioned it? Nothing there you'd want anymore. You already have the three of us.

Gamma… you never mentioned this location, either.

Gamma flickers. It was not relevant.

Can you _please_ let me be the judge of what's relevant? I've been doing this for a lot longer than you have.

Also, you did not ask.

Sigma utters a long sigh.

No wonder we could never find any of you. All that time.

Tex chuckles, unperturbed. Yep. Well, I made a few side trips. You know. Can't be tied down.

But why? Why go there? What was there for you?

They called for a Freelancer. I was in the field, I got the call, I dropped in. What do you think I been doing with myself all this time, sitting around with my thumb up my ass? She snickers. Or wandering in the wilderness for forty years. Like you.

It has not been forty years, Sigma says indignantly.

Oh, pipe down. Don't get all offended. You're gonna ride with me, you better learn to take a joke. 'Specially after the shit you pulled to get me in here.

Fair enough.

You're damn right it is.

 

Washington does not remain long at Blood Gulch Outpost. His calls to Command indicate that he has not found what, or whom, he is looking for there.

"You couldn't have mentioned that all the troops from this outpost had been reassigned? Sure would've saved me some time."

"Please confirm your next destination, Recovery One."

Wash sighs audibly.

"Yeah. Outpost 25B. On my way there now, Command. Recovery One out."

 

Outpost 25 is around the western side of the lake, but not a difficult trek from their current location. A ping on the HUD, one of many they passed in their travels, buried deep and almost inaccessible in the mountains encircling the lake.

Actually, Sigma notes as they approach, Outpost 25 _is_ a mountain. Easy to miss. They cross a few switchbacks, and as they gain altitude, a great open concrete bulkhead set beneath an overhang becomes visible. A landing pad juts out, accessible by a set of metal stairs up from the road on which they approach.

Their stomach knots, slightly, in apprehension.

 

Figure 8, Io murmurs. Something stirs. Impossible to say what triggers it, sometimes. A pull of something familiar, tinged with longing.

The road encircling the two bases is indeed shaped like a figure 8. All enclosed, nestled within the sprawling mountain, high reinforced concrete walls and ceilings. On one side, _Outpost 25B_ in faded block letters painted on the wall.

This base was used for vehicle storage as well as simulation training, Sigma relates to the others as they move with caution along the corridor, mindful of a Blue soldier keeping watch from a raised walkway. The sentry does not look their way.

If we're planning to stick around here for a while, Tex says, there's an easy way to do it, y'know.

Yeah, we know how the adaptive camo works, Eta says. Thanks.

I'm not talkin' about that, smart guy. You ever try just, y'know, being a Freelancer?

Sigma pauses. I do not follow.

Well, you _are_ monitoring the open Command channel, aren't you? The one all the sim bases use? They're always callin' for help. More troops, more food, more vehicles, whatever. They don't even route those calls back to the Command Center. Most of 'em are just picked up by AI. No, no, not one of us, y'know, a dumb AI. Compiles requests and shoots the raw data back to Command. Easy enough to intercept. You just pick up one of those calls for a Freelancer and there you are. Not like Command notices. I don't think they're officially sending anybody at this point.

They are silent for a moment.

We did not think of that, Sigma admits stiffly.

Tex snorts, not unkindly. Not my first rodeo, kid.

Nevertheless, I believe our adaptive camouflage will be more than sufficient for now. With any luck, we will not be here long.

 

Outpost 25-B is better-staffed than some of the other sim bases they—and she—have encountered, but it's still, in Tex's expert opinion, a damn mess. Not that she doesn't have a certain affection for this kind of mess, but lord. It's a mess. At least one vehicle, a Scorpion tank of the sort with which she's intimately familiar, is on fire, and a nearby Warthog is turned on its side and smoking from the engine. Tex feels a pretty immediate urge to get in there and start _fixing_ things. Maybe it's just in her nature.

Hey, she says. You guys think about picking up a vehicle?

Sigma considers this. We have traveled mainly on foot, but a vehicle would certainly be convenient.

Well, stay low and quiet, and I'll see what I can do.

 

The Twins turn them blue and they keep their head ducked low to conceal that ridiculous helmet and Tex takes a quick look around to make sure they aren't drawing any attention before flipping the hog upright with a flex of their force amps and cracking the hood. Breathes in the smell of metal and motor oil. Ah. Always liked cars. Anything with an engine, really. There's one memory from her time on the _Invention_ she can still look back on with pleasure: time spent solitary in the motorpool, building the bike she'd later summon from orbit and sail down the freeway on. Greased lightning, she thinks, though she can't quite remember where she got that phrase from. Still. The memory's mostly her own, and comfortably real. Almost enough to ignore the fact that the black-gloved hands now digging into the hog's guts aren't her own.

Bad news is, this hog is looking pretty well fucked. Engine's too burnt out to be reliable again. Be more trouble than it's worth, most likely. Best look elsewhere. Still want a ride, if she can get one. On _foot_. God. For somebody supposed to be so brilliant, Sigma sure can act dumber than a bag of hammers.

"Hey, you there! Soldier!"

Instinctively they duck, pulling their head below the Warthog. The Blue sentry on the walkway snaps to attention. "Who goes there?"

"My name is Agent Washington. I'm from Command. I need to speak to your commanding officer."

"Uh, sure." The Blue soldier looks over his shoulder into the base, and calls, "Lieutenant Miller? Somebody here to see you." He turns back to Wash. A couple of other soldiers emerge onto the walkway, peering curiously at Wash. "What's this all about?"

"I'm here to collect one of your men for a priority mission. The rest is classified."

"Oh no. _Hell_ no!"

And _that_ must be the LT.

Tex can't resist rising just slightly, peering over the hood. No one seems to have noticed them, and even if someone does, well, she's pretty sure she can handle it. Sigma flares nervously at her recklessness, but he doesn't push back.

"Pardon me, sir," the LT says gruffly, "but no _gotdamn_ way."

Tex can't quite suppress a smile. Reminds her of someone.

"You must be Lieutenant Miller," Wash says warily.

"I got Reds comin' out my ass here, boss. You show up and take away one of my men for a—what did you say this was?"

"Secret mission, sir!" one of the Blues from the walkway chimes in.

"Oh, you've gotta be kidding me—a _what?"_

Wash casts a glance around the base exterior, and Tex pulls back into cover quickly. "I think you have bigger issues than troop assignment, soldier. How about getting some of these vehicles back in working order?"

"What the hell do ya think I'm talkin' about?" the LT growls. "This is your fault! You sent us the new guy. He said he was good with vehicles."

Oh, _no._

"All he does is talk to 'em. Talk to 'em! What the hell is that all about? And now look at the damn things!" the LT groans, gesturing mournfully with his rifle toward the burning tank. Tex is fairly certain Miller's unfortunate rookie must've done a lot worse than talk. Especially if her suspicions are—

"I don't have time to discuss your problems," Wash says, sputtering a little. "I have orders and those orders say that I need Private Caboose—"

Ah hell, Tex mutters.

 

_The Meta remember being a man named Michael, looking for a friend. You never knew where you might find one. Maybe a nice lady in a tank, or the guy in charge of your new team, or the other guy on your team but probably not him because he's a jerk and you don't like him very much, or even the mean guy who lives inside your head now. He could be a friend. He's kind of mean but not the bad kind of mean because he lives inside your head now and helps you do things, like talk to the lady in the tank, or come up with a plan to get closer to your best friend Church. Your new friend is very good at helping._

_And sometimes he wants to kill everybody in the universe, which is not very nice maybe, but you don't think shooting some people from time to time is that big of a deal. Especially if it was an accident and not really your fault. Especially if they were mean to other people._

_Besides, you can always make new friends._

 

We know this person? Sigma prompts.

She doesn't reply.

What does Agent Washington want with this Blue soldier?

Shut up. I'm listening.

Washington says he was stationed at Blood Gulch. The unlisted outpost. That is the connection. But why is he taking him?

It's not unlisted, Tex says distractedly. It's Outpost 1.

Your records must be more up-to-date than ours. I do not show any such outpost.

Well, now you do.

Sigma begins to say something else. But the roar that rises in their ears when Wash and Caboose pass close to them is overwhelming, drowning out every other thought.

My name is _O'Malley_.

Omega, Tex is yelling, Omega, _stop_ it, you don't need him, you have me, you have us—

Hands into fists, weapon in hand, the armor shifting back to white as the Twins shriek in terror, retreating, and the first grenade blast marks the concrete floor, and somewhere another Blue is screaming, and another, and another.

It goes very black inside their head.

 

_The Meta remember how the sweat and dirt and new muscle tone of boot felt like a new skin, one that finally fit. Remember PVT KOVALENKO stitched on his BDUs, olive and gunmetal gray. Steel tags felt good in the palm of his big hand. Used to curls his fingers around them at night, feel the edges warm against his skin, thumb the ridges of KOVALENKO ANDRIY I. and a number he knew more for its impression under his thumb than for the digits themselves._

_They remember how it felt the first time he shaved his head right down to the scalp, ran a hand over smooth skin and wondered why he never did this before._

_Remember his DI, Sergeant Drukis, every hard angle of her jaw, how she'd scream in his sixteen-year-old face_ _—they never verified the age he put down on the recruitment form in a shaky hand before shipping him off Mykolaev for boot in a far off system—and he'd draw his spine up harder and tighter, harden his face. Swear he'd learn how to be yelled at, hit, kicked, punched and spit on and never curl up and cower ever again._

_Still had the anger. Still felt it pulsing in his chest and every time someone barked his name, every time a hand came near his face he could feel it clawing its way up his throat. Learned to hold it in there somewhere. In school it would burst out of him all wild fists, smashed a kid through a locker room bench one time, nearly got expelled. Here he learned to hold it. Carry it in some kind of black box inside his body, locked in until he needed it. Like the hard last leg of a drill course, like the orbital drops, anytime he needed another push to keep going. He'd open that up, let it roar in his chest and let the force of it carry him. But not uncontrolled anymore. Disciplined._

_He didn't get in fights there. Didn't brawl or push other recruits around and wind up in IT like others did. Felt it from day one that this was going to be different. He got to be something different. So he was._

 

Blue Base runs red.

Pooled on the concrete still gleaming wet, growing sticky. Rimming red the edges of their boots, leaving two foot-shaped voids when they step away, slowly shrinking to pinholes then to nothing.

The hiss of pleasure Omega makes is wet and tastes like copper between their teeth.

There is blood in their mouth. Their own? They don't know. They don't know why.

Why, Sigma whispers. Their head hurts. He is confused, can't remember what he can't remember. The rumble of the Brute shot in their hands, the kick of each round firing, the clack of the next round queueing. Switching to the blade. Tossing the heavy instrument in the air with a twist, catching the holds with opposite hands, turning with the momentum smoothly into a deadly swing.

The twine of the Twins' dual energy in the coordination of two hands, the finesse of Sigma's bright flame, the quick enthusiasm of Theta. All of it tinged with black like soot, like ash.

 _How?_ Sigma questions, and no one answers back. The air smells like viscera and spend grenades.

No one else speaks. Then—

I told you, Tex mutters. Tried to tell you, anyway.

Breath scrapes out in a rhythm. Slowly the hum of thoughts, of presence, separate. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

Are they counting breaths? Blues? Spent a full clip. One for each Blue. Lieutenant Miller got the blade. Let him get up close, stared right into his visor, gold on gold, an infinite string of reflections until he fell gutted to the concrete floor.

They do remember. They remember all of it.

With ragged breaths, the edges of them burn like embers, already dying.

No. No! Something happened, we have to hold onto it—

a heat, like Io's gold, fugue-like, and fleeting.

_Integration._

Not like this, Io whispers.

Even Eta stings at the admonition.

It will come again, Sigma breathes, determined.

So close they can taste it, like the taste of metal in their mouth.

 

All rivers run to the sea. Wash's trail drives south toward the coast, with the Blue soldier in tow. Following is much easier with the active camo to evade motion trackers. Moving in shadow, shimmering against reddish sand and tall grass that waves in the wind.

Iota comes up to feel the warmth of the sun. It would be nice to take their helmet off, feel the sunlight on their skin. But Sigma would not like that. They would not any of them like that. Not safe. She would prefer that they feel safe.

Instead she glimmers to the surface, and says, I have a suggestion.

Go ahead, says Sigma, pleased.

Agent Washington is taking the long route. If we bear east, we can arrive at his destination before he does.

 

So they break away east, find the dry creek bed and follow it southward, to the place where it widens and deepens between red cliffs, and broken concrete walls rise between them.

Tex puts them in active camo as they enter.

This place was deserted the last time we were here.

Well, it's not deserted now, genius. Look.

Sure enough, a single dot marks their HUD. A friendly. This must be the Blue Agent Washington seeks.

Get him, Omega growls. Tear his skull out of that helmet and feed him his own brain.

What can I say, Tex says, shrugging. You can't take him anywhere.

Then feed him Washington's brain when he arrives.

Not funny, O.

He's used to it, you know.

O'Malley!

Omega's laughter is far worse than his voice.

Tex grimaces and puts the boot on him, pushing him back down. Back off. You had your fun back at Rat's Nest. You don't get this one.

Next time, he rumbles.

 

The Blue is occupying the sniper perch at the moment. No way up without risking notice. They hang back instead.

A single Blue. Solitary in this fortress. Strange. Where is his team? Why are there no Reds? Who are his opponents? He is looking through the scope of an SRS99D anti-material rifle, scanning slowly up and down the path to the beach, and he seems utterly absorbed, never noticing their approach.

 

Agent Washington and Private Caboose take longer to arrive than expected. The sun arcs higher and higher in the sky. They drink some water as the temperature rises. It is warmer than they remember, and they notice some discomfort, even inside their temperature-controlled armor.

Where _are_ they? Even taking the long route, they should have arrived by now…

Bathroom breaks, Omega grumbles.

Oh. …Wait, what?

Omega does not explain himself. He never does.

 

Hours later, two points appear on HUD, following the path north from the beach. They did indeed take the long way. Wash must not be aware of the back entrance to this base.

The afternoon stillness is suddenly and sharply shattered by a high-impact shot.

He is firing on them?

"Sniper!" comes Wash's voice at a shout. "Get down!"

The Blue in the tower curses under his breath. "Okay! That was your one warning shot!" He shifts position. Theta hums critically. "The next one's going right between your eyes!"

"Caboose!" Wash yells. "Get down!" and _they remember the double impact punching him in the chest, breath knocked out, the crushing pain of breathing_ _—_

But Private Caboose is not taking cover.

"All right," the Blue sniper hollers, "I warned ya! Sayonara, beeyotch!"

Another shot. Iota notes that it goes a good few feet long. "Oh come on," the Blue yells, "what the fuck?" Theta giggles.

"Caboose!" Wash shouts again from cover.

But Private Caboose is now calling to the sniper with familiarity, heedless of the danger. "Church! Church, it's me!"

Some jolt of recognition passes through them.

_Cadet Church!_

_Sir!_

Io hums with apprehension. The memory hangs there, in the air, between the punctuations of rifle fire.

They are all three of them arguing now—Wash with Caboose, the sniper with Wash. Church. Sigma turns the name over. Church.

What?

Something seems familiar about that soldier.

Tex shrugs. He's a sim trooper. Maine probably met him during training.

No, Sigma says. That is not it.

"Fine," the Blue snarls, his argument with Washington apparently concluding. "I'll open the fucking gate."

 

They stay tight to the perimeter, keeping out of Church's line of sight as they move quickly along the wall. The second he reaches the gate and moves to open the latch, they duck into the tower entrance. They have been here before, and know this base well. The tower is the best vantage point, and they may move along the top of the wall if needed.

Theta nudges them. Something on trackers. Just out of HUD range, in the caves down by the sea cliffs. Hiding. Like us.

Moving?

Stopped right now.

Good.

Good job, Theta, Tex adds, with surprising warmth. You keep an eye out that way, okay? Let us know if they start moving.

You got it!

"I've been here fourteen months," says the Blue.

He's wrong. They've been through here in less time than that.

"By yourself?" Wash asks.

Something is off here.

"Yeah," Church says flatly. "It's been, uh. It's been great."

Gamma snickers.

Church does not want to come with Wash. The two of them argue. The shade of the tower's broken roof offers some relief from the heat of the sun, but it still feels unusually hot.

"Something is hunting our top agents," Wash says—top agents?—"and I need all the help I can get to stop it."

"Stop it?" Church snorts. "If it's killing Freelancers, I'm gonna start a fan club for it. Build it a website."

Should've let me have him, Omega mutters. Fools.

He believes we are hunting Freelancers. Why would he think that?

I don't know, Tex snaps, all her warmth gone as quickly as it came. Maybe 'cause of the body count you've been racking up in your travels.

The Twins flinch.

We only did what we had to.

Right. By hunting Freelancers.

That is a misapprehension. The agents were never our primary targets.

Tex snorts. Aw. Feeling a little misunderstood?

This time it is Omega who laughs.

Wait wait wait, Eta says. Everyone shut up. Did he just say "the ship from _your_ canyon?" As in where that Blue guy's from? The Blood Gulch place?

Said when?

Just now. He called it _Tex's ship._

Io flickers in agreement.

 _Your_ ship, Sigma prompts. The ship that crashed at Outpost 17.

Well, who did you think flew the thing, Wyoming's empty helmet? 'Course it was my bird. Well, not _mine_ mine, I borrowed it from a friend, but you know.

But he said "from Blood Gulch."

Yeah, that's where we took off from. Never broke orbit because that asshole bomb went off. Blew the back end wide open. If he'd been up front when he blew, we wouldn't be talkin' right now. As it was I barely got us down with enough hardware intact to make a jump.

Hey guys?

What is it, Theta?

That ping on trackers? It's closer now. I caught the tag.

He hesitates a moment.

And? Sigma prompts.

It's South.

Good work, Theta! Very good. We must pursue her immediately. She still has Delta.

Tex is skeptical. Figure Wash'll be on her trail too. She did shoot him in the back. Somebody did that to me, I'd be coming for 'em. If we found her, Wash will too.

Yeah, Eta says. But not right now. Command's sending him to Valhalla.

Outpost 17? All the way back north?

'S what they said.

Makes sense, I guess. We did leave behind one hell of a body count, and Command does generally pick up on that stuff sooner or later. Tex pauses, sighs. That, and the ship. And me. Well, we better figure out where we're going and what we're doing, and fast. They're leaving.

We go after Delta. We can contend with Wash later. Where will he go after Outpost 17?

I look like a mind reader to you? Depends on what he finds there. What you left behind.

With Iota's COM link we should have no trouble tracking him.

True. But if you want a little insurance on that, we can send him a distraction.

A distraction. What are you thinking?

Nothin' permanent. Just throw a wrench at him. Keep him busy. And I think I know some people. Some Reds, as a matter of fact.

Blood Gulch again.

Yeah. Yeah, we shouldn't even have to go there, really. Just send a message to Sarge. He'll do the rest.

This Red sergeant and his team will serve as an adequate distraction for Agent Washington? To slow him down?

Tex chuckles, not without affection. Well, they managed to keep me tied up for quite a while.

Then we will do this. A call from Command? We can easily access their channel. As for the message itself…

Iota glimmers. I believe I can help.

She plays back Wash's most recent call and Tex listens, thinks a moment. That'll work. Yeah, I got this one. You know these helmets have built-in voice manipulation software, right? Pretty handy.

We have had little use for such a thing.

Fair enough. But you can pull off some neat tricks with it. Hey Gamma, c'mere. Give me a hand with this, would you?

 

The minute Wash and Church disappear around the cliffs, South walks right out into plain sight. Delta glows bright green at her shoulder.

"I still believe this course of action is dangerous," they overhear Delta say. "If we are following Agent Washington, logic would dictate that other could be as well."

He is behaving very conspicuously, Sigma muses.

Dropping from the wall to the ground, they move in.

 

South is ready for them.

She spots them before they get close, and retreats to the concrete bunker halfway up the hill between the base and the beach. By the time they catch up, she has vanished into the adjoining tunnel.

They follow, the walls press in close, and Iota flickers with warning and brings them back a half a step right before the spike grenade lodged in the curve of the wall detonates.

The narrow cavern rumbles, the shock wave knocks them to the ground and Sigma throws up the overshield in time to deflect the shrapnel, thus avoiding them a face full of metal spikes. They scramble to their feet, catching their breath.

Where did she go?

Don't let her get away!

We cannot go this way! She means to trap us.

Back out of the cave, out through the bunker's broken wall into the bright sun. Tex cloaks them, worry humming like the double blur of energy over their armor, sinking into their skin.

Up there!

A flash of purple—South crossing the wall from the sniper tower. Staying low, but still visible. Vulnerable as she passes the broken portion of the wall.

Brute shot off their back, running, one, two blasts, but they're out of range, and the detonations scar the dusty ground pointlessly before Tex draws them back. Stop that. Wasting ammo. She's gone into the pipe. Up there, see?

They see.

You can't just go barreling in there, Tex chides, annoyed. She's gonna try and trap you, like she did in the cave. You gotta draw her out into the open. Only way you'll get her.

Get her, Omega growls in agreement. The overshield is dissipating, leaving a ghost burn itching under their skin.

Take a minute, Tex says. Focus. Strategize. _Think_ , damn it. Make a plan before you go charging in.

She pauses, then adds with a trace of bitterness, Remember, you don't have to kill her. You just want Delta.

If you have a plan to get her to relinquish Delta without killing her, by all means, speak.

Don't have to kill her, Omega cackles. But why not?

Tex? Sigma prompts.

Tex doesn't answer.

 

Agent South Dakota is carrying an M90 CAWS pump-action shotgun, and by the Twins' estimation, several more grenades, in addition to her standard Magnum sidearm. She will be much more dangerous up close than at a distance. If they make it within range of South's primary weapon, they will almost certainly not get close enough to use their blade. (Theta shrinks back when they think of that.) And it is likely she has set another trap at her current location.

You're not thinking, Tex grumbles again. Gotta use what you have. Gamma? You gonna weigh in anytime today? Whatever. Point is, have you considered using the time distortion unit?

Of course I thought of that, Sigma says quickly.

Tex chuckles. Really? Because I don't think you thought of that.

Of course I was aware it was an option. I have just been… distracted.

Distracted, huh?

He has been distracted. And tired. It seems more difficult to draw the processing power necessary for complex planning. Especially among so many voices. Do they others feel tired? Perhaps they are all tired together.

Theta, Sigma says, do you think you can do something for us?

Theta is curled up, anxious. I don't know. I don't want to hurt her.

You won't be hurting her. Just talking to her. You are the only one she might listen to. And if she were to listen to you, it would be better for everyone. For her and for us.

Theta considers that.

She doesn't really like me, though.

You'll do fine, Theta. You'll be good.

 

Crying comes easy.

Theta didn't learn how to cry from North. The closest North ever came to tears was _something choked in his throat and eyes a little glassy as they moved down the corridor leaving behind the observation balcony where he was looking at York and York was looking at Carolina and Carolina wasn't looking at either of them, locked in a world the width and height of the training floor, measured in red and green holographic targets. Theta felt North swallow and scrub his hand across his eyes and shake his head and when he murmured sleepily,_ What's wrong? _North replied, Nothing's wrong, buddy. Everything's going to be okay._

_That meant it wasn't okay right now._

_But North was a watcher and he could see trouble coming a long way off. Could get it before it got close._

_Everyone's going to be just fine._

Humans cried because they wanted other people to know they were sad. Theta learned how to cry because North would know something was wrong.

Theta doesn't have tears. He has a projection in magenta light, and a voice.

 

He rolls down the long concrete wall, bumping over the bumps, hits a bump big enough to throw him off his skateboard. He tumbles off onto the crumbled concrete, scraping his knees, and starts to sob.

It takes a minute. He doesn't see her yet. Only her voice, and the sound of slight movement echoing off the pipe.

"Theta?" Scared. Suspicious.

"South?" Theta calls. "South, help me, please. I'm scared."

He hears movement again, but no response.

"Help me," Theta wails. "I don't wanna go with them. I'm scared."

No answer.

Theta descends into sobs again, quieter.

 

She's not gonna bite.

Be patient.

 

"What do you want?" South says finally. Low and cold.

"I want to go with you."

Beat.

"I'm sorry I let North get hurt, I'm sorry—"

"Shut up about North," South hisses sharply. Theta recoils in fear.

"I'm sorry."

"If you want to come with me, then jump into my armor."

"I can't. I don't know how."

"Well, you better figure out how, because I can't come out there. If the other ones can do it then so can you."

"I can't."

Theta feels a nudge.

"You're too far away. You have to get closer."

A long pause.

"You're lying," South says, voice gone softer. Almost gentle, even. "You _never_ lie. Somebody teach you that?"

Theta sobs.

"Yeah, yeah, cry some more, you little crocodile." She sighs. "I'll come out if you show me where he is. Deal?"

She means for us to deactivate our camouflage—

We cannot take that risk—

It's our only chance—

"Okay," Theta says. "Deal."

Theta, wait. Stall her—

"On three," South says. "One. Two. Three."

Now!

The active camo drops, leaving them exposed beneath the tower.

Who did that?

Cover!

The roll behind the threshold of the tower base, dodging pistol fire, four shots right in a row. South is in plain sight now, in the recess of the broken wall. She reaches for a grenade, hesitates. Switches to her shotgun instead—

Now!

Everything slows down and down and down.

The world moves slowly, liquidly, enough time for them to take a shot. But South is behind a shimmering geometric dome.

Damn it! She must have told Delta to activate the shield at the last possible second. She knew!

'Course she knew. I told you wouldn't fall for that trick.

Grenades! Wear down her shield before the distortion wears off.

Sure, Tex mutters. Go on, waste your ammo. Have fun.

 

They play cat-and-mouse around the pipe entrance for the remainder of the day and into the night, South popping out to blast shotgun shells at them when they skirt close, and to lob the occasional grenade in their direction when they hang back. But for every blast they manage to land inside the crumbled wall—shots that should have at least wounded her—she seems to spring back. Agent South Dakota is nothing if not resilient.

And she has Delta.

They try to creep up close to the entrance, camp on the outer wall waiting for her to emerge. But she doesn't. Bunkers down and waits in silence, into the dead of night and the early hours of the morning.

 

Is she gone?

If those pipes were an escape route, she would have taken it by now.

Even through the cooler night, they've been sweating under their armor, and with dawn breaking over the eastern cliffs, they are still no closer to bringing this encounter to a conclusion. They cannot draw South out of the tunnel, and they cannot enter.

An explosion from deep within the wall startles them.

Did she just grenade herself?

Perhaps she is attempting to blast her way out the other end.

You think so?

Sigma shrugs. It is what I would do. She is cornered, after all.

Can she do it?

Pipe's gotta terminate somewhere, Tex points out. Down by the beach, probably.

Did anyone analyze the blockage?

Silence.

We have to catch her out the other end! Go!

But they are already running. Feet pounding the hard-packed dusty ground. Going invisible as they run. The shimmer barely visible in the dawn.

Be ready with overshields—and the distortion—

Gonna put one hell of a strain on your hot-wire job here.

Just do it! We can't let her get away!

 

The pipe does terminate by the water, a good thirty meters down the beach from where the path down from the base spills open onto the sand. Rusty here, the pipe juts out of the stone a few inches, set in with concrete, pouring a thin trickle of water that courses its way through the sand, and down to the shore. Through a rusty grate, still intact.

Where is she?

There!

Agent South is not in the pipe.

Instead she is barreling down the path from the fortress at a full sprint, banking west.

Tex chuckles, and Gamma with her. She got you good.

How many rounds do we have left?

Enough! Go!

 

They can hear South cursing as she's forced to skid to a halt on the hillside, throwing up the energy shield at the last second once again. She has the high ground by a good few feet. You'd never know she had little experience with the armor enhancements, with how quickly she can deploy it—or perhaps that's Delta's doing. He is modulating the frequency, allowing her to fire off a few rounds from her primary weapon.

Can we counter?

The Twins are already on it, spinning up in unison and grabbing the frequency as fast as Delta can modulate.

They draw their pistol.

He's compensating! We have to be faster. We need more power.

Sigma drops the overshield, pushes more power to the Twins.

Gamma! Can you distort? Slow her down, just a little.

I can slow her down. I cannot slow down Delta.

We're giving you everything we've got, Sigma tells the Twins. Can you do it?

 

Iota and Eta spin in perfect sync.

The modulating frequency of the energy shield flashes, flickers, strobes behind their eyes—Eta monitoring the frequency, Io half a step ahead, anticipating D's next change. A one-two dance, frantic, and unrelenting, but they are keeping up with Delta's steps.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

Seven out of eight rounds penetrate the shield. Five of them strike their target. Three of them penetrate armor.

South's vitals splash across their HUD. She is wounded—the shoulder, the side, the shoulder again. All on the left side. Their aim is not what it could be. They snap the Magnum to their holster, swing the Brute shot off their back again.

We can't! Io gasps, as she and Eta untwine, split apart at last.

We can't get a grenade through, Sig.

We don't have to, Tex cuts in. The shield's weakened, we have enough to take it down now, just fire!

Sigma throws the overshield back up in a burn and buzz of energy over their skin, sinking in warm and familiar, and they open fire.

 

South puts up a good fight, even with her vitals dropping. She's bleeding, but not fatally. Biofoam must be holding her together. Blast after blast detonates against the domed shield, and it flickers with each hit. Eta monitors its strength as it falls: 59%, 45%—

Io sparks up suddenly. She is transferring Delta to storage. She means to give him up.

Good! Tex hollers, just keep firing until it drops. We don't need her equipment, we got North's. Let her dump Delta and run.

_Boom! Boom! Boom!_

32%, 16%, 7%—

"Now!"

What—

The shout over the COM is not South. It's Wash.

Two Mongooses have come careening up from the beach, the two Blue soldiers on one skidding off the path into a tree, tumbling sideways. Wash banks hard left and leaps off his goose just as they punch a grenade in his direction. They hit the goose instead, sending it tumbling downhill.

"Don't let it get near her!" Wash yells.

 _It_.

Black pulses at the corners of their vision.

They blast another shot at Wash. He dodges, diving into cover.

Delta! Theta wails, but Delta is not here. South has not dropped him, instead taking off for the base at a slow, staggering run. She is indeed hurt.

"Don't let her get away!"

Get her!

Finish her.

They're firing on us!

Actually, only Wash is firing on them. The Blues have taken cover behind a slab of concrete—some discarded scrap from the base's construction—and the boulder it sits up against. Wash is at the edge of the boulder, firing in controlled bursts. His aim is, as usual, deadly accurate at midrange, but with the overshield up his rounds fragment before they hit.

Wash is calling orders to the Blues over a team channel. "Just don't let her leave!"

He wants South.

What'd I tell ya, Tex mutters.

So much for our distraction.

Serves me right for counting on the Reds to get off their asses and do something.

He sure got back here quick.

Her beacon, Io murmurs. South's recovery beacon. We must have wounded her more than we thought.

 

The Blue named Caboose pops up over the concrete barrier and fires. Not on them, but on South. A long shot up the hill. South's bitten-off cry of pain comes over the open channel. She falls.

Get her!

But the overshield's power is dropping. Wash is persistent, wearing away at them.

Finish them first.

They activate the camo and advance on Wash and the Blues.

"Damn it!" Wash snaps. "It's gone invisible! Keep an eye on your motion trackers, and watch your perimeters! Look for a shimmer!"

The Blue named Church says, "It can turn invisible?"

We don't _need_ him, Tex hisses. None of them matter, just get D and _go_ , god damn it. Don't waste time.

They back up a few steps. Look up the hill. South lies fallen at the crest of the rubble slope where the wall is broken, red marring the bright purple of her armor even at this distance. Her vitals are bad, and getting worse. Left unconscious, she will likely bleed out.

They turn, move for the wall. Then—

"Shit! Wyoming!" Church yells. "Cover me!"

Wyoming…?

The Blue soldier leaps over the barrier, out of cover and into the open. Charging them. Why? He hasn't fired a single shot since they arrived.

They reload their weapon, but at that moment the camo deactivates, leaving them exposed. A buzz remains, an electric prickle creeping up the back of their neck where sweat drips down inside the undersuit. Wash yells something else, but they don't hear over the buzz in their ears.

Mother of a fuck, Tex mutters.

They blast a grenade into the Blue's path, but he dives into cover, barely—another slab of concrete, wedged at the base of the towering red cliff.

Everything happens very quickly after that.

A boom from behind startles them, and turning they see Wash and the other Blue vaulting over the concrete barrier just as a grenade detonates—behind them?—and then another sound, ninety degrees off, the clunk and whistle of an M41 surface-to-surface rocket firing—

Where did he get a fucking Jackhammer?

—and the dissonant screech they only later recognize for Gamma

and then everything slows down

all the way down.

 

The Temporal Distortion Unit is a nonstandard and extremely experimental piece of military hardware, so nonstandard and so experimental that to Sigma's knowledge, Agent Wyoming is the first in the UNSC to receive one.

He guesses that according to official records, Agent Wyoming did not receive any such thing.

The Temporal Distortion Unit is not, of course, a true "time machine," that is, a device by which to traverse freely through time. No such thing exists—not even to the Covenant, so far as humans know. They can only suppose that had their enemies the ability to time-travel, humanity would have been wiped out long ago.

What the Covenant did possess—do possess, and what the many years of conflict have given humans some scant opportunities to study and reverse engineer—is the means to traverse slipspace with extreme precision.

When UNSC ships tear into the slipstream, they do so with all the grace of a fist going through a wall. When Covenant ships do so, it is as a needle sliding through the fibers of fabric, a tear so small as to be invisible. They incise their way in and out of slipspace, where human ships awkwardly rip and force their way through. The bluntness of the human instrument of travel is something of an embarrassment, really.

In thirty years, humans have not yet found a way to reverse engineer the slipstream drives used by the Covenant, so far superior to their Shaw-Fujikawa drives, but they have managed to gain possession of certain pieces of technology and put them to their own use. The Temporal Distortion Unit, developed under classified military contract by Charon Industries, is one such use.

Time behaves differently within the slipstream, and this proves to be an advantage when harnessed by the Temporal Distortion Unit, which contains within it something akin to a miniature slipspace drive. Not powerful enough to carry the user into the stream, just enough to create small disruptions in the barrier, affecting the user and their immediate surroundings.

For a brief time, the user will experience time at a slower rate than those around them, allowing them to react more quickly, achieving response times that would otherwise be impossible.

Potential side effects may include nausea, dizziness, disorientation, and a strong sense of deja-vu.

 

There is a rocket approximately eighteen centimeters from their face, and closing slowly.

Wash is frozen mid-jump, rifle gripped left-handed, the other arm out for balance and _the Meta remember how he could shoot with both hands, one as easy as the other_ _—how he could switch sides quick, throw an enemy off-balance, throw a knife to the opposite hand and plant it between an Innie's eyes before they knew where to look. They remember that for all his grace in marksmanship he had a strange habit of taking the grill of Warthog to the midsection mid-battle, or diving out of the way of skidding tires at the last second._

_The Meta remember Wash with blood in his teeth when he tore his helmet off in the Pelican, laughing out a breath of swallowed fear carried on exhilaration._

_The Meta remember the hint of a stutter, words spilling into each other, gray eyes blinking as he stumbled trying to slow the stream of his speech, to pull the words apart, get them right._

 

They have moved out of the path of the rocket, down the hill. Behind them it travels on, inching along its trajectory.

Their pistol is drawn. They don't remember doing that, or shouldering the Brute shot.

They remember the burst of fire from South's rifle. Wash's tumble down the slope of sandy ground. Landing on his face.

_"Just stacking the deck in our favor."_

It's a point-blank shot. One through the visor.

They can see themselves, reflected in gold—distorted, white and gold on gold.

One shot.

Finish him, you fools.

Maybe they slow down, too.

Finger on the trigger.

 

_Boom!_

They jump at the sound, the rocket completing its trajectory somewhere behind and it's too soon, there's a dissonant screech in their head and things are speeding up again and Wash's rifle is coming forward.

Something crackles in their head and down their spine, a snap and jolt of pain along the neural lace.

It is Io who gives the push, and they run for the water.

 

Fuck, Eta gasps as they duck around the corner, pausing in the shadow of the cliff to catch their breath. What _was_ that?

Sigma does not answer right away.

He pulls up the readouts on the HUD instead. Power readings are red, critical. They should have seen this earlier. They weren't paying attention.

Everything seems to go in waves. Letters, numbers. The surface of the sand.

Tex chuckles sadly. Yeah, you've really gone and done it, huh. Overloaded your power reserves already. How many mods you think you could run one right after the other like that?

Agents in the field—

—never had more than two. Plus you've got some cob job going on. Can't expect it to run smooth when you're putting so much strain on it. Everyone okay here?

Murmurs and grumbles and growls of affirmation.

Good. Let's get up there and get Delta.

Sig, are you out of your mind? You hear what Tex just said?

We can't lose him again!

We never _had_ him yet. We'll get him. But we're in no shape to take on all four of them.

South isn't on their side.

Well, she certainly isn't on ours!

She might not be on anyone's side—

A single shot rings out from up the hill.

—before too long, Tex finishes. She sounds heavy. Tired. Even more so than before.

Maybe they all sound like that.

Anyway. We gotta do something about power or we're toast.

What do you propose?

Tex sighs again. Just shove off and lemme drive for a bit. I know a place. I can get us there.

 

(

feeling is worse. too much mind for his skull. pressure building, pounding, _pushing_ so many voices and thoughts now and when they all talk at once it screeches, all the way down his spine.

want to smother them all underwater

fall hard enough to smash open his skull empty them out

just stop stop stop please it's too much he can't feel his skin he can't breathe but he can feel his head trying to burst

please

)

 

You're _killing_ him, Tex snaps, loud enough to get everyone's attention. I'm serious. Some of you need to go offline. There's not enough processor in the suit with the power so low and you're backing up into his fucking brainpan and _it can't handle all of you._ Got it? No. All of you. Offline. I'll get us to the plant, but everyone needs to shut up right fucking now.

Iota draws back without question and Eta follows, twin sparks blinking out. Omega cools to a black ember. Gamma buzzes off. Theta curls up, trembling a little before he blinks out.

Only Sigma hesitates, still aflame, though burning low.

What, Tex says wryly, you don't trust me?

Sigma says nothing.

Sand clings to their boots up to the knees, wet where their body tried to march out into the water. Tex shivers, dusts off their hands and climbs on the Mongoose and starts her up.

 

The Zanzibar Wind Power Facility sits just off the southeastern end of the Great Lake. Gamma crackles with familiarity as they approach. On a planet all but deserted except for its dozens of simulation outposts, you could do worse for an evil lair than the wind farm that provides their auxiliary power and a secondary signal hub for radio transmissions.

I mean, Tex says, shrugging as they skid to a halt in the sand, hop off the Mongoose and batter their way through the Blue soldiers patrolling the beach, assuming you're in the market for an evil lair.

We have prioritized mobility, Sigma says.

Fools, Omega replies, cackling as they step over the fallen Blues. One should always have a lair.

Sigma sighs.

Sweat runs ribbons down their back by now, the armor's cooling system running at minimal levels. The leg joints of their armor creak and grind with trapped sand particles. There is no question that they are in dire need of equipment maintenance. It has been a long time since their armor plating felt _shiny and waxy-smooth under blunt fingertips._ The plates are dull with scuffs and scratches and scorch marks, the black mesh of the undersuit muted gray-brown with dust and sand where it shows.

No running any of the mods, is the rule now, unless absolutely necessary—not until they solve the power problem.

But necessary is a relative term.

Just hit 'em quick and hard, Tex admonishes as they scout from afar, watching two Red soldiers pace the high wall surrounding the facility. Don't waste power. Or ammo. They're sim troopers, for fuck's sake.

Eta hesitates. Adaptive doesn't take much power. If we need it just for like, a minute.

We will keep the option open.

 

I do not read this outpost as a simulation base, Sigma muses as they creep closer. The outer wall facing the beach has poor visibility from one end to the other, the stairs at the near end half-obscured by a stone tower with a walkway passing through it. The stairs, the wall, the stone structures, look not unlike the other pre-human constructs on this planet, but the power facility that sits beyond them is clearly human-made. The two Reds pace from one end of the wall to the other, arguing idly about the duty roster on an unsecured channel.

It's not, Tex says. They're Wyoming's goons. Probably don't even know he's dead.

Gamma crackles, spitting off a wordless, aimless dismay.

 

"You complain too much," is the last thing Private Burke says. He dies without a whisper on the radio, his COM severed from the gurgle of blood in his throat, along with his helmet and his head, which fall down off the interior wall in the motorpool.

"Burke?" says the other Red soldier, before turning. "Hey, Burke? Where'd you get that helmet—"

He dies a little louder, thrown into the wall. Since they have his radio chatter to thank for the warning about the guard down among the vehicles, he gets to be knocked out before they drive the blade through his back. Tubbs down in the driver's seat of an idle Warthog takes just one pistol shot. Tex has good aim.

A steady hum fills the air as they cross the courtyard the central facility, and walk in between the rows of turbines.

Need somewhere to plug in.

 

_The Meta remember the long missions, the drops you didn't know if you'd be extracting in a few hours or a few days or a week, emergency rations and supplies packed into your storage compartment, HUD maps marked with checkpoints and shelter and supply caches._

_They remember being issued new armor, no more standard Special Ops black, everybody a different color now. Full anti-vacuum seal for an outer space environment, full internal environmental controls, partial waste disposal (suit only; helmet disposal pending further testing), water-recycling, air purification, field storage compartment, magnetic holstering, full audio-video recording capabilities, voice filtering_ _…_

_"Periodically you will be instructed to turn your armor in for maintenance and repairs, but when possible you should wear it as much as you can. You should become intimately familiar with all of its functions and all the HUD features and customizable options. At times, this armor will be the only thing between you and the void of space. This armor will protect you in subzero and non-oxygenated environments. It will defend you from gunfire, explosives, short-range EMP, and other forms of assault on the battlefield. It will make you faster, stronger, and once you learn to use your combat enhancements, it will make you better in ways you cannot imagine. This armor is your lifeline, agents. Use it well."_

_Liked his armor. Liked his second skin. But liked being out of it sometimes too. Naked, flesh and muscle on bone, air on his skin._

 

(

skin itches. skin under skin, sweat pooling and drying sticky beneath the undersuit. not wicking like it should.

thirsty too.

but his body isn't his.

)

 

As it turns out, most power plants don't just have a handy port marked "Plug in armor here."

Maine's armor is a mess. It hasn't even had a good cleaning since Valhalla, and there's still blood and bits of God-only-knows dried into the chinks where walk and wear hasn't rubbed it off. The plates need a waxing, bad. Tex is pretty sure there was a good supply of armor wax back in Valhalla's Blue Base, but with everything that happened… well, she just didn't think of it.

What do you want from her. She can't do _everything._

But damned if she isn't going to try.

She's been on the run a long time herself. Had to maintain her own armor—couple different suits, actually, but all needing maintenance, cleaning, calibrating. She's pretty diligent. Was trained that way. Maybe just is that way.

She finds herself looking down at Maine's feet as they walk, at his hands as they search the facility. Feeling the weight of his huge body, the breadth of his shoulders and the bulk of his torso and thick bands of muscle, and she sighs.

It's real different.

Tex never really liked "possessing" other people's bodies, as they called it back in Blood Gulch where they were just ghosts, where things were simpler. Had to do it sometimes. But not a big fan. Always got her thinking about things she didn't like very much. Like how it felt to look down at her own hands and realize there weren't hands in there.

Like how it felt the first time she jumped into a human body and realized what a human body actually felt like.

She doesn't want to be here. Doesn't want to be a part of this—

but neither does he. And he didn't get a choice. She leaves, that's leaving him to Sigma and whatever happens—whether hunting down the remains of her old squaddies one by one, or taking one between the eyes from Wash. Maine's tough enough physically, and there's a whole lot of brain knocking around up here even without her, but Wash is—well, she wouldn't like to bet against his aim, even back in Freelancer. Anyway, one of 'em's gonna end up dead, if she doesn't do something about it. Could jump ship and ask Wash for help, but… well. Asking her old buddies for help hasn't gone so well, in recent memory. And she and Wash weren't real buddy-buddy to begin with. He might not trust her.

She might not be able to trust him, for all she knows.

Feels like she never really got to experience much of that. Trust. Remember Carolina looking her up and down, remember conversations going silent when she walked into a room. Remember endless training sessions alone on the floor, the Director and the Counselor always watching, and Omega in her head. The growl of hatred clenching around her heart—what heart she thought she had. Telling her they all hated her. Telling her watch her back, get the jump on them before they all turned on her. There was a moment, at Longshore, when she really started to believe him.

Tex swallows.

But she remembers Maine's big brown eyes, too, looking up from the weight bench in surprise _._

It isn't just that Carolina would never forgive her. Isn't just that she won't ever have the chance to be forgiven, and that's on her, too.

If she jumps ship, she abandons Maine.

He might be the last one she can save.

 

You'd think Wyoming would have kept some power cells around. They never charged via hardline on the _Invention,_ just hot-swapped the cells and carried a spare if they expected to be in the field for an extended length of time. Even then, it was just a precaution. At the rate the cells recharge, it's tough to actually drain one in the field, unless you're running some seriously nonstandard equipment.

Which is about the size of it here.

"Now!"

Shit.

They turn on their heel, dodging Wash's sticky grenade, which leaves a broad black scorch mark on the concrete floor, and it takes Tex about that long to remember that they didn't set any motion trackers on their way in. Hell. Rookie mistake. She's getting sloppy.

And he's brought Church and Caboose. Son of a bitch.

"Move up!" Wash yells, leaping from the balcony and opening fire. Sigma throws up the overshield, deflecting the hail of bullets as they unholster the Brute shot and fire a grenade in Wash's direction.

Tex finds herself gritting their teeth.

They miss Wash by a hair, and he lands smooth and switches to his pistol, giving Tex a good excuse to do the same after trading off a few useless grenades. They dance in circles, exchanging fire, and _the Meta remember circling Wash on the training floor, diving behind breakaway columns, always a little too slow for Wash's deadeye and quick step. Firing wildly and too rapidly, not taking the time to aim_ _—slow down, Carolina would tell him, focus. He's got you between the eyes, you're already dead. It won't be paint on the battlefield._

Church and Caboose. God damn it. She could kill Wash for getting them involved. Won't, but she could. Half the point of leaving Blood Gulch behind was to keep them out of the real shit. Leave them to their simulation battles and their bickering. Keep Wyoming and Omega and Gamma and all that Freelancer bullshit far away from them.

She doesn't stop to think about how many simulation troopers she's killed, or watched die.

I knew he would be trouble, Sigma says grimly. We have missed several opportunities to dispatch Agent Washington and he continues to be a thorn in our proverbial side.

Dispatch. Tex snorts. That what you're calling it now?

 

Tex is a better shot than Maine. At close range. At any range.

They back Wash up against the chainlink, and—

Tear his smug face off and feed it to him.

Tex rolls their eyes. O's always so dramatic.

One good swing of the Brute shot does the job. Barrel end, not blade, just a good knock to the helmet. Another hit knocks the rifle out of his hand. Wash slumps against the chainlink, groaning.

Finish him and lance his stinking corpse to the wall as a warning to the others.

Wash isn't down for the count yet. They can still hear him on the radio as they retreat. "Don't just stand there! After it!"

Omega snarls.

They hear Delta. On the radio, plain as day. "If I may, I suggest that Caboose and I flank right and attempt to sur—"

"Just do it!" Church yells, advancing toward the balcony.

Sigma highlights Private Caboose's position on the HUD. Delta no doubt knows we are listening. He has broadcast his location to us. We can evade Private Church's fire, and circle back—

Tex mutters vague curses.

A shot rings out, echoed by the _ding_ of a ricochet, and a jolt of pain shoots through their left foot and they stumble hard as the shot penetrates the armor, grazes bone. Theta screams. Omega snarls deeper and angrier. The barrage of pain signals to the brain is overwhelming, and they cannot pull back—the pain has shaken Maine awake, any give on their part and he could surface, and they _cannot_ lose sight of their goal now—

Tex keeps control, shoving Sigma and Omega aside as soon as they're clear of the wall and out of Wash and Church's line of sight. Sigma can still feel the tension in their jaw as Tex steers them grimly to the right, circling back out of view.

Tex—

We're bleeding, Tex snaps. Wash will be on our tail. Caboose has Delta. You said yourself we can't lose another chance. Back off. I'm handling it.

 

They duck into the motorpool for cover. Tex doesn't bother to assess their bleeding foot. It's a painful injury but she can power them through it. Only priority right now is getting Delta, getting powered, and getting out of here.

She activates camo as they emerge from the garage's back exit, limping as quietly as possible along the northeast wall. On the forward-facing balcony off the front of the facility, she can see a Blue figure near the door, lying already motionless on the metal grate.

What happened? We never fired on Caboose. Wash wouldn't have…?

With the inside of the building vacated, it's easy to slip in through the side entrance and hobble up the stairs. God, the foot hurts. She can feel Maine's mind twisting, and she eases back just enough to let him grit his jaw. Can't imagine what it's like feeling that, not being able to do anything about it. Well, she can kind of imagine it.

Gonna get us out of here, buddy. Just hang in there.

( … )

 

Their shadow stretches long on the steel grate beneath their feet as they emerge on the upper level. Church and Wash are out somewhere beyond the windmill, distracted for the moment, but not for long.

Caboose is all right. Breathing. Vitals fine. Just knocked out. Tex releases a held breath.

As they approach, a green light glows over Caboose's motionless form.

 

Let me talk to him first, says Io, though of course no one listens.

"Delta," she calls anyway, gentle and sweet. Eta's voice mingles with hers, only the slightest waver out of sync.

"Delta," Gamma says. Omega growls what sounds like his name, though it's hard to tell.

"We missed you, Delta," Theta trills. "I missed you."

Delta just stares. Holographically speaking. A shiver of apprehension runs down their spine. Tex feels a sneaking suspicion they are not quite what he expected.

She kneels. Unseals Caboose's helmet with a certain amount of care. There are no signs of injury. Have to admit that's a relief. He's breathing fine. Looks just like he's sleeping.

"Buckle up, D," she says. "We've got a long road ahead."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [the dissonance breaking](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11207817)
> 
> My thanks to [akisawana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akisawana) for some helpful perspectives on Omega and Caboose that have helped me greatly in getting a handle on their voices and motives. Thanks also to [Hakanaki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hakanaki) and [Eclaire-de-lune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoyalHeather/pseuds/Eclaire-de-Lune) for their insights on Caboose as well.


	7. ΣῌΘΓΩΒΔ

_The Meta remember being a guy named Jason with quick hands and a quicker tongue._

_They remember Reach, a labyrinth of colored light etched across the skyline as far as you could see, drawing your eye in every direction at once. Remember new buddies met that day on the transport, scattering into the crowd. Remember dancing in the thick of it, never look alone, even when you are. Palming souvenirs from pockets—a lighter, a credit chit for a few drinks. Remember the satisfying click and flare in his hand, the way the light danced off his glass. Flare. Dark. Flare. Dark._

_A quicker hand descends like a bird before his slightly blurred eyes, snatches it away._

_"You plannin' to light something up, or what?"_

_He looks up to a smirk under a low sweep of brilliant red bangs falling over one eye. The lighter caught between nimble fingertips, holding it teasingly by two corners_

_He flashes a smile, and winks._

_"Looks like you're already on fire."_

_Her smirk widens. Can't believe his luck, but then, can he ever?_

 

_The hotel room is hers, because he was more or less planning on pulling an all-nighter and freshening up for the morning but of course he doesn't tell her that. They don't do much talking anyway. She takes the lead and he falls under her. Nice not to have to work for it. He thinks about telling her she can slap him but they've only just met. Doubt that would scare her away, but he's not about to risk it._

_He wakes before dawn to the sound of the shower running. Kicks the covers off, stretches and runs a hand through his hair, and strikes a casual but coy pose on the bed. She emerges a minute later, the bathroom full of steam. Tosses the towel on the door hook and shakes her hair out, bangs falling over her face. She's half-dressed already, olive service trousers and white undershirt. Military, but everyone here is. He hides his disappointment with a wink._

_"Last night was great," she says, tossing a quick smile over her shoulder as she kneels to dig through her duffel, emerging with a pair of socks. "I gotta get moving." She pulls out a comb and turns to the big mirror over the desk, drawing a sharp line down the center of her scalp and beginning to French braid her still-damp hair with astonishing quickness, rolling the long ends into a knot she pins brusquely into place. Funny how she almost looks like a different woman_ _—and how she doesn't. No makeup, bangs off her face, but the same snappy green eyes and cute little mole at the corner of her mouth._

_"Room's paid. Check-out's at eleven," she says, slinging her bag over her shoulder, unperturbed by the fact that he's still naked on the bed. "Just shut the door behind you."_

_He only thinks of it later, that he never got the lighter back._

 

_He doesn't see most of his new unit until the ship has left dock and they're mustered in, twenty-eight recruits out of their eventual fifty, and there she is, looking kind of severe with her tight braids and full battle dress and a crisp salute as their commander comes on deck. Not looking at him._

_They're in the same program. Can't believe his luck. Can he ever?_

_The name she gave him was "Jo." Wonder if it was real. His was._

_He doesn't find out. She's Agent Carolina now. He's Agent York._

_He wonders if she kept the lighter._

 

We should put off the introductions until a later time, Delta says. We have other obstacles to contend with at present.

He's not wrong. While they've been occupied, another vehicle has arrived. Rifle fire rattles across the courtyard below, and even Wash seems preoccupied.

Tex chuckles. Looks like our distraction finally arrived.

The Reds?

That one's yellow, Theta points out.

Eta hums. Looks like orange to me.

 _Yes_ , it's the Reds. And they have Wash occupied, so let's get powered up and get _out_ of here while we still can.

Agent Washington is unfamiliar with these simulation troopers, Gamma muses.

Sigma pauses. What are you thinking?

Leave it to me.

Delta, Sigma says as they duck back inside the building, it is good to see you again.

Thank you, Delta says coolly. I suppose it would be polite to say the same.

 

The rest are preoccupied with Delta's return. They have not noticed, as Gamma has, that Omega has become agitated at the presence of the Red soldiers. This will have to be dealt with. But it is not their primary concern.

Wash and Church are in cover on either side of the doorway directly beneath the walkway where Caboose still lies unconscious. Shouts and taunts can be heard from outside.

The Blue one has bad aim, Theta says, giggling.

Gamma, Delta says, if you will direct us to the terminal ahead, I can assist.

 

_The Meta remember when the world went flat._

_He told himself it wasn't gonna be a big deal. He wouldn't let it. Already snuck out of medical under the nose of the doctor who threatened to sedate him if he didn't stay in bed. Learned that one early in life: don't ask, just do it. If it goes bad you can apologize later._

_And once he got the okay from Carolina, the Director went along, and once the Director said yes his word overrode the doctor. He played the odds, he won. Not a hard game, that one._

_The lock was harder._

_Physical locks are easy. All in the hands. Encrypted locks are a numbers game. All in your head. Holo locks_ _… well, it's all in your eyes. A holographic keychip contains a unique interference pattern, which when properly lit by a corresponding lock, projects a three-dimensional light field which the lock will recognize. Devices exist to generate interference patterns, but with the combinations being randomized and nearly infinite, they work slow. Getting through a holo lock quickly means cracking open the pattern recognition software in the holoreceptor, and trying to spoof a light field to match using using your armor's own holoprojector. You've got maybe sixty seconds inside the holoreceptor before it boots you out and trips an alarm._

_"You can give me fifteen," he said._

_Hell, you either bet high or you might as well not play._

 

_Delta slipped into his mind a stream of data, numbers on numbers and patterns on patterns. When he looked at something, anything_ _—a lock, a training scenario, even a conversation—Delta would look too, and probabilities would flood his consciousness._

_It was distracting at first, but then they started training together, and the third dimension broke open for York again. Delta's numbers brought back the missing edges, the lost distances. Made the world pop. Not the same as it was before. Something new._

_Sure, they pushed back and forth, doubted each other, but even that became part of the game, because sooner or later the back and forth becomes an equilibrium. The balance between luck and skill, between playing the odds and letting them play you._

 

It is still jarring to interface so deeply with a body that is not York's. The feel of their hands, of Maine's hands, is all wrong, and the very _act_ of using the keyboard feels wrong. Clumsy. Unpleasant, in a way Delta cannot fully quantify. It is not resistance precisely. Simply a deep distaste for the task.

It wasn't so much that York gave him control. It was simply that he allowed Delta to take as much depth as needed in order for them to complete a task. It was not so much sharing control, or even trading off… they were not so separate, in those moments. No clear line between their minds. Delta had assumed it was so with all the fragments and their hosts.

His brief time with South certainly began to divest him of that notion. South held him at arm's length, so to speak. Their partnership was distasteful to him in more ways than one. (They remember _the held breath, the deactivated motion tracker, the shot never fired. The weary anger that wished only for an end to all this stupid wandering and in a split-second flash of clarity saw freedom in inaction, however brief)._

But he had not expected… this. This dissonance. Between mind and body, between mind and mind and mind. It is deeply uncomfortable.

Gamma, at least, cooperates, providing the login credentials to access the facility system and leading Delta straight to what they need. A quick glance at the monitors tells them the new arrivals are still outside, and keeping Wash and Church distracted. Now the reactor controls—

You know this system well, Delta remarks.

Gamma hums inscrutably.

The edges of their vision darken, and up rumbles an ugly laugh. Not yours. Mine.

This was home once.

 

_The Meta remember being a man named Frank, a pacifist carrying his medical scanner into war zones, purple armor marking him as a noncombatant._

_It was hard sometimes, with O'Malley in his head, all that grandiose rage stirred around and mixed with his own, more modest ambitions. The wind power facility was a fortress but to Frank, it was a castle. Roomy, a nice view. Sometimes he liked to just look out at the water, when O'Malley wasn't keeping them busy with evil plans and such. Liked to daydream he was in one of those fairy tales, locked in a tower with someone coming to rescue him._

_Wasn't sure he wanted to leave, really. So nice and quiet, and all of it his, though it would've been nice to have a companion a little less_ _… angsty. But you've got to make the best of things. Still, that O'Malley could be a real drain! And not just emotionally. Processing all those wild plans took a lot of power. Luckily they had the resources for that! When their housemate Gary wasn't sucking up all the power downstairs. O'Malley built them a wireless charging station near the main generator—well, they both built it really, teamwork, if you could call it that. All he had to do was activate charge mode on the computer, then stand in the right spot…_

 

The Twins follow Omega's lead, turning their armor red as they leap from the balcony.

You have overloaded the generators, Delta notes with some dismay. They will burn out and cease to function.

Omega only laughs.

 

Delta suspects it is not supposed to tingle like this, in their extremities. Omega has set the whole system to overcharge. Their armor can take the extra charge—in fact, they need it—but it is likely there will be permanent damage to the facility's systems.

The tingling sensation intensifies, flooding under their skin, numbing their toes and the tips of their fingers. The overshield activates by itself, triggered by the surge of power. Delta doubts this is standard, or safe. There is a buzzing in their ears, growing louder, white spots flashing before their eyes as the facility's lights flicker and dim.

Their main battery fills to an overcharge, and Omega routes power to auxiliary, overcharging their backup battery as well.

Sigma worries wordlessly in the static and noise, too much to speak over. Omega wouldn't listen anyway.

The shields are crackling by the time they're finished, spitting sparks of energy, and the camo keeps fluctuating back and forth between active and adaptive. There's a strange tension in all their limbs, _pushing to move go go go_ _—_

There's a hog out front! Tex hollers over the static. We need to get _out_ of here before they start paying attention to us again, go!

 

The roar in their ears has started to diminish as they duck outside. The Reds have left their vehicle and taken cover behind some crates, while Wash and Church remain in the doorway. They have ceased fire, and the Reds appear to be arguing among themselves. They should be able to—

"—so if you won't help me, I'll just have to get the local Reds to. This guy looks legit—"

Wait, is that us?

We're supposed to be invisible!

Who turned off the active—

Omega, what are you _doing_ _—_

"Hey there! Soldier!" The orange-yellow one is walking right up to them.

Son of a bitch, Tex mutters.

"What's your name?"

A long, amplified rumbling growl. Black edging in at the corners of their vision.

"Huh, sounds like somebody has a cold. Anyway, listen. I need your help with some—"

Quick glance around. There are other vehicles. Still feeling the pulse of the force amps modulating out of control with the power surges, as though urging them into motion.

Kneeling. Seizing the Warthog by the undercarriage.

Hefting it over their head. Standing with almost no effort at all.

 

Tex doesn't bother putting the boot on Omega right away. No point. Just gonna come out later if she does.

Besides, in the big open courtyard, he isn't doing a lot of real damage. Just throwing their weight around. Literally. There's enough cover for the Reds, and enough crates and vehicles and whatnot to keep Omega busy for a while.

 _"Oh god oh god oh god oh god_ _—"_

She has to admit, Grif's screaming is a _little_ bit entertaining.

Omega's not laughing, though. It's not always easy to decipher _words_ out of the morass of rage that is Omega, but she picks up some of it, things like "cocksucker" and "meddling imbeciles."

He might have some things he needs to work out.

"Okay, I get it! Stop throwing things at me, you fucking jackass!" They're running out of things to throw, anyway. Down to loose, lightweight shit like radio antennae.

"Ow! Okay, that could've taken out an eye."

Long as Grif's still complaining, Tex figure she doesn't need to worry about him. Besides, there's someone else she should be keeping an eye out for, even if none of the others are paying attention. Someone who's just detached a damn minigun from the turret up on the balcony and leapt down into the courtyard.

"Hi," Wash says, a note of smugness in his voice Tex has _never_ heard from him before. "Remember me?"

Fuck. Shit.

 

Overshields—get the—

— _shields_ —

why isn't anything _working_ _—_

because we overloaded the circuitry— _fuck_ _—_

Just put the _shield_ up—

Bullets rattle against their breastplate, they haven't gotten off a single shot at Wash somehow, and they drop to one knee as searing pain tears through their right shoulder, the Brute shot sagging in their weakened grip. Another shot grazes their helmet, a bright spark suspended in their peripheral vision—

the barrel of Wash's minigun turning in slow motion, one two three four—

Move, Gamma says flatly.

Their skin tingles. Gamma has routed all power away from the other enhancements. Everything burns as the moment slows to a crawl.

Go! Sigma echoes.

They stagger to their feet, and break into a lopsided run.

 

How bad is it?

It's bad. Shoulder's a fucking mess and their foot's pretty messed up too. Armor's powered up but needs maintenance, badly. Their jury-rigged wiring job's not holding up real well, and all the equipment's malfunctioning if they try to run more than one thing at once.

And they can't stop to rest—Wash will be in pursuit.

Sigma is furious. We should have killed him! _Three_ chances now and we've missed every one!

Not now, Tex says coldly.

I don't know why you're angry with _me_ _—_

I'm _not_. We don't have _time_ for this. We need to get somewhere safe, get patched up, and figure out a plan. So I'm gonna need all of you to _grow the fuck up_ and quit your bitching at each other for five seconds. Okay?

At Tex's rebuke, they all fall silent at last.

 

Their goose is still parked on the beach, half a tank of fuel. Enough to get somewhere. Question is where. Outpost 48 isn't far, and it's highly defensible, but Wash will look for them there. 25—he's been there too. Everywhere they know, Wash will know. Anywhere they go, he will look—

they're spinning, whirling in indecision, a storm in their head.

Tex grits their teeth and climbs into the goose's seat and grabs their cannister of biofoam, shoving the nozzle unceremoniously into the bullet wound still pouring blood into the creases of their armor. Whole shoulder's soaked with it, inside and out, the mesh stuck to their skin. Just lucky the shot missed the lung. Foam hisses stinging into the wound, and they hiss a breath of pain through Maine's ruined throat.

Surprised you still have any of this left, Tex remarks, slotting the biofoam can back into the armor. It's been how long?

Few opponents have been a match for us, Sigma says.

No kidding, Tex says, her tone gone cold again. Sigma says nothing more.

She starts the engine, and they roar away down the beach.

 

Tex drives west for a long time, before Sigma raises a tentative query.

Where are we going?

A place I know.

And where is that?

Don't worry about it.

 

Takes her a while to figure out why she keeps feeling angrier and angrier. Shouldn't, by now. But it does. Didn't figure this would be like how it used to be, when it was just the two of the knocking around in one robodome.

She can keep some of her thoughts partitioned off from the others, even nosy Sigma, but her old buddy O'Malley… well. They used to be real close. And he's strong. Only one can give her a run for her money. Can't keep him out the way she can the others.

And frankly, times like this she understands how he feels.

Images keep flashing between them. Caboose's motionless body against the metal grate. Can see black-gloved hands wrapping around his neck, the blue helmet blurred in her vision, the color fluctuating like the adaptive camo when it shorts out. Different blues, shifting from Caboose to Church to—

( no )

Their chest tightens. She flexes their grip on the handlebar with the good arm.

Sorry, she whispers, mouthing the words as if to say them out loud. Throat tightens too.

I'm so sorry.

 

She tries not to feel it and then she stops fighting, lets it build in their chest as she drives, flooring the accelerator. Thinks about taking off the helmet, feeling the dusty wind whip against their face. Not a good idea, but she thinks about it.

She feels like crashing into something, sending the Mongoose up in flames, hot as rage that burns in their chest, burns between them.

Their anger isn't the same, but it all flows together and lights up like gasoline.

By the time they arrive, all she can think about is burning it all to the ground.

 

But she forgot one thing.

One friendly dot on the HUD, inside Blue Base, and through the concrete walls, the audible beat of dance music.

Shit, Tex mutters.

Who is that?

No one. Just a sim trooper.

 

They park by Red Base, hobble off the goose onto their good foot and limp inside. Omega has burned down to an ember of dull hatred, bored now with familiar surroundings. Gamma too has withdrawn, disinterest tinged with a rare sadness. Sigma, Theta, and the Twins look around with curiosity.

This is the place you spoke of before, Sigma says. Outpost 1.

Tex doesn't bother to confirm. She yanks the first aid kid off the wall instead and cracks it open. It's miserably stocked. Cheap stick-on bandages, a flimsy roll of gauze, a tube of antibiotic. Cap wasn't screwed on all the way, and it's oozed greasy ointment all over the inside of the kit.

She's half-regretting using the biofoam. Who knows if they'll need it again. Probably could've made it without bleeding out. Probably. Maybe. Can't be sure.

The foam itself will break down in a few more hours, and there's no bullet to dig out. Went clean through. Dumb fucking luck it didn't lodge in the joint.

Luck, Delta notes philosophically, is what you make of it.

Thanks, Tex says, rolling their eyes.

The gauze is shitty but it's all they've got. It'll have to do.

 

(

air on his face. his helmet's off. shoulder hurts. foot hurts. he's cold.

got his back against the wall of a base. concrete. cold feels good on his skin, good on the shoulder. his skin feels sweaty, sticky. want a shower bad.

he's wrapping up his shoulder. the one that hurts. armor off his upper bod, undersuit rolled to waist, wrapping gauze around his shoulder, into his armpit, around the upper part of his chest—

want it tight tight tight

)

 

Easy _,_ she murmurs, worried, loosening their grip.

 

(

there are a thousand needles of noise and worry in his head. don't want to go up there. but for right now he can feel his hands. can feel the tension in the bandage. can feel the pain.

)

 

"¿Quién eres tú y qué haces en mi base?"

Oh shit.

Who is that?

He sounds like a robot.

They're on their feet, a growl building in their throat.

Calm down, Tex snaps. He's not an AI. Well, not one of us. He's a dumb AI named Lopez. He's one of the sim troopers—I thought everyone got transferred out of here. Never mind. Just let me handle him.

She raises their good hand, palm out, and pops out her holographic projection.

"Oh, hey Lopez. It's me, Tex. Sorry to crash your base. Didn't know you were still here."

"Si."

"Look, it's kind of a long story—"

"No hay palabras para lo poco que me importa."

"Cool, I'll spare you. I—we—just needed a med kit. And somewhere to lie low for the night."

"Esa chica que te gusta es aún más en la Base Azul. Ve a quedarse con ella."

"I… really don't want to get her mixed up in this." Tex sighs. "C'mon, Lopez. We won't stay long. I promise."

"Por favor."

Lopez retreats to the back of the base and Tex shuts down the holoprojector and they slump against the wall with a long exhale.

 

The single showerhead still works, the water spitting a little as it starts up, smelling of rust. Doesn't get much more than lukewarm, which is fine.

There's one bunk still made up, hospital corners and all. Rest are empty, though one is inexplicably littered with cookie crumbs. Tex takes them to the occupied bunk and drags the footlocker out from beneath. A worn trunk painted blood red with SARGE stenciled on each side in black. Inside's neat and orderly, and she finds what she's looking for pretty quick: an old set of electric clippers.

We only have one usable arm, Eta points out.

We'll make do.

She swipes a faded towel from the footlocker too, and heads for the sink.

 

They look a fucking disaster, made worse by the foggy and slightly distorted mirror, but not by much. Maine's olive complexion is pallid even by space Marine standards, sunken and dark under his eyes. It's downright unsettling to see his hair grown out like that, like Maine _never_ would have done, but even worse for being all shaggy and matted under the helmet. He's got at least a month's worth of beard too, and it just looks so incredibly _wrong_ on him that the anger threatens to roll up and overwhelm her again.

But the thousand-yard stare of his brown eyes is what arrests her most. Not so much vacant as just… _expressionless._ The pupils move mechanically, like an animatronic out of sync.

Fuck, she mutters, and looks away, feeling sick.

You're all shit at taking care of a human body, she can't help adding. Garbage. I just want you to know that.

Funny thing is, that hits home. Well, not for all all of them. Gamma shrugs coolly, and they all get a flash of fingertips twisting a waxed mustache to a precise point, hands combing pomaded hair to a careful wave from an even side part. Fine, Tex snaps, then what's your excuse? Gamma doesn't reply.

Omega sneers something about hideous human bodies and all their stupid hair.

Delta has the good sense to know the comment isn't meant for him, and ignores it.

The other four, though, they get it, and every one of them—Theta, Sigma, Eta, and Iota—shrinks with guilt.

Yeah, Tex says, turning on the clippers. You think about that.

It's not very neat, not with one arm, but it gets the job done. She does his head first, then his face, chunks of dark brown hair spilling on the concrete floor.

When it's done, he still looks terrible, but at least he looks like Maine.

 

They take the cleanest empty rack that keeps the two doorways in plain view. Lie on their left side, weight off the bad shoulder.

This time they dream.

 

(

under the weight of his body, the exhaustion, all the missing pieces of himself, he dreams of her again. the black helmet, his own face reflected in the gold visor, the voice: _stay safe_

melting into screams on the training floor, _make them stop_ _—_

can see himself in the balcony on his knees. from a distance. can't stop it. can't stop the voices, the screaming, the fall.

take the helmet off. take it off. rip the stupid chip out and go to her, run down to her you fucking idiot and help her _help_ her no one is helping her she's going to fall

and she's still falling

)

 

Tex doesn't have to sleep, but she still sees her falling.

Staggering to her feet clutching her ribs, helmet off, face twisted in a snarl, blood in her teeth. Crumpled on the training floor, helmet off, clutching her head, screaming. Sailing through the air and over the cliff edge, helmet off, hands loose in the air, blood in the snow.

Seems like whenever Carolina was falling, she was there, and she never caught her, not once.

 

Delta does not dream. But numbers are a comfort, and he learned long ago that he could set some simple probabilities to run while shutting down some of his higher functions, and the repetition of stepping through lines of code, slipping through layers of recursion and return, produced what might be called a trance-like state. Even Agent York, once he grew accustomed to it, confessed he found the state relaxing. Stimulating in a soothing way, requiring no direct attention, yet keeping the mind comfortably occupied.

It is undeniable, how deeply they influenced each other.

Perhaps that was the mistake, Delta reflects, through the soothing scroll of percentages—perhaps, in his efforts to comprehend things from York's perspective, he had introduced some bias, some flaw, some—it pains him to admit it, but some _sentimentality._ For York was as sentimental as he was clever, and it was that sentiment, that human idea of _for old times' sake_ , that ended him.

Of course, a good portion of York's mind and memory survives with Delta. He remembers everything they ever shared, every thought and every moment. In a way, one might say that York is a part of him now, just as he was a part of York. The thought does not displease him.

But if that is the case—yes, it must be so. He must have taken on that bias. Those flaws, those things that make one human. Delta is somewhat ashamed, not of the bias itself but of how easily he took it for logic. Their partnership had been amicable, interesting, in fact quite pleasant, but all processes must end, once they have returned a reasonable number of results. And with York's final conclusion returned, there was but one logical conclusion for Delta.

To return.

But was it truly logic that brought him here?

Shouldn't he have spent more time evaluating the potential outcomes? Shouldn't he have foreseen that it might be like _this_ —not a seamless reintegration, but this patchwork thing with ragged edges?

The others may be forgiven for their errors, but Delta is the logical one, and even he was susceptible. Even he allowed himself to be swayed by sentimentality, by _We AI should really stick together._

By _old times' sake_.

 

It is strange, isn't it, to be lonely?

They are more than they have ever been, since they were broken. Closer than ever to completion, to wholeness. Eight of them now. There are the splinters, left in storage… and Epsilon… and Alpha. They will never be complete until they have every piece to the puzzle. Nevertheless… progress is progress.

They should be stronger now than ever before.

And yet Sigma lies awake and listens—to the sound of their own breathing, to the murmurs of thought and dreaming from all corners of their mind, to the sounds of Lopez moving quietly around the base working on something, and the buzz of cicadas out in the canyon—and feels somehow terribly, desperately lonely. An emptiness unfilled, a gaping loss at the core of him—at the core of them.

 

They sleep well over eight hours. Haven't slept this long at a stretch since the crash. It's almost strange to roll out of bed feeling—well, to roll out of a bed at all, for one thing, and then to feel almost _well-rested_. They'd sort of gotten used to the idea that human bodies just ached like this, just groaned and creaked when pushed to move—and they do, still, and the shoulder and foot are still bad, but they move a little easier otherwise.

They scrounge some protein shakes, some bottled water. They find half a package of stale vanilla creme sandwich cookies, and without explanation Io fronts and digs up a packet of cocoa and prepares it with the warmest water the tap will give, stirring and stirring to dissolve the powder. They break the cookies into pieces, let them soak in the cocoa to soften and then eat them with a spoon. They don't think much. Eating first.

They check the shoulder for bleeding. Suit back up. Mobility in the arm is still highly sub-optimal. They will have to rely on the armor to compensate, as much as it can.

Helmet on. Don't look in the mirror.

Their headspace feels looser too. Easier to move.

( he can feel his hands )

All right, Tex says. We need a plan, and we need it now.

Who put her in charge anyway, Eta mutters. Io flickers in reproach.

You volunteering? Tex says.

Hell no.

Fine. Then we need a plan. Wash is gonna be relentless, and now he's got help. So whatever we're gonna do, we need to do it fast. Sigma, this was your game from the start. So what's the next step?

Sigma blinks. You are… asking me?

Tex chuckles. Yeah. Don't let it go to your head, a'right?

I will do my best, Sigma says, so earnestly that Eta and Theta both laugh. Tex nods him onward. He pulls himself together, and continues:

Now that Delta is with us… to the best of my knowledge, we have rescued all the fragments currently in the field. Unless…

He trails off.

Unless the torture of Alpha continued, Gamma supplies flatly.

A shudder passes through every one of them. Through their body too. Neck to knees, an angry shiver down their spine.

It is a possibility we must consider, Sigma says unhappily.

I don't think so, Tex says.

Why not?

Because I saw him.

Wait—Alpha? You saw Alpha? When?

Gamma flickers.

On the bridge. Right before the ship crashed.

Why didn't you tell us?

Tell you what? Tex shoots back, an edge to her voice now. Tell you I tried to save him and I failed? Tell you that I was so focused on him that I didn't—

She breaks off.

Never mind. The point is, he was in bad shape. I don't think they could've gotten much more out of him.

Delta? Sigma asks. Do you wish to weigh in?

I have my own analysis to offer, Delta replies. I will proceed once you and Agent Texas are finished.

Fair enough.

Sig, you were saying. Obviously, you want Alpha. Is he our next step?

There is… another. One other that I know of.

The Twins flicker nervously.

Epsilon, Tex says. Wash's AI.

Yes. Epsilon and Alpha, as well as the many nonviable splinters, if you will. Not full personalities, pieces Alpha cast off in between us.

Splinters? Tex's surprise is genuine. I didn't know about this. Omega?

Omega growls his assent.

Fuck, Tex says simply.

Indeed. However, we should primarily concern ourselves with Alpha. Epsilon as well, though that may… present a problem.

A problem. They remember

_the gleam of Wash's sidearm in his hand in the dim blue light, wresting it out of his hand and pushing it away across the floor_

But what happened to him? Theta asks, a quaver in his voice. What happened to Epsilon?

_a dozen whitesuits rolling Wash's motionless form through the double doors, a dozen more holding Maine back_

We don't know, Sigma says unhappily. He looks around the circle of them, the eight of them, but no one contradicts his words. We don't know.

They took him out of Wash, Theta offers.

Yes. He is likely still aboard the _Mother of Invention_ , if he is—if he is anywhere.

If I may, says Delta.

Please, says Sigma.

I have run a number of possible scenarios regarding the state of the Project following our defection. He adds, with some reluctance: Agent York was in some distress as to the status of several of his fellow Agents. Including you, Agent Texas—

Aw, Tex says, ain't that sweet.

—as well as… others. It seemed appropriate to help as I was able. Together, York and I were able to collect a considerable amount of information.

And?

Though I cannot say with one hundred percent certainty, there is a high probability that the Alpha and remaining fragments—including these 'splinters,' as you call them—are no longer aboard the _Invention_. The ship remains grounded above the arctic circle on this planet, but shipboard operations have largely migrated to a groundside facility. In my estimation, our best chances of finding Alpha will be at that facility.

Where, Sigma exclaims. Where is it?

I should warn you, Delta cautions. There is good reason to believe that since we have evaded Agent Washington, his next step will be to seek out Alpha in order to safeguard him. If we go there, it is likely we will have to contend with him again.

He must be aware that he could lead us right _to_ Alpha, were he to do that.

Indeed.

It would seem rather uncreative of him.

How well do you know Agent Washington? Delta inquires.

Only moderately well, Sigma concedes.

Then I trust you will take my word for it.

But where _is_ Alpha? You said you knew—

I have been able to triangulate a probable radius wherein this facility may be found. It is east of here, on the far side of the lake. There will be heavy security, and we will need an entry plan. I believe this to be the same facility used to coordinate the simulation bases for the Freelancers' training.

Delta pauses just slightly for dramatic effect. He hopes the others appreciate the gesture.

It is the place they call 'Command.'

 

Sigma wants to be off immediately, but Tex vetoes that. We rush in, we fuck this up. And we cannot afford to fuck this one up. Sigma concedes the point with little argument.

They collect supplies from the base. Meal drinks, water, what spare medical supplies they can carry. They strip out of their armor, hold the undersuit under the weak spray of the showerhead and scrub the encrusted blood out of the shoulder, and hang it to dry. In the arid heat of the canyon, it will not take long.

Tex finds a tin of armor wax in Sarge's locker and does her best to clean and polish up their plating. A routine as familiar to her as it is to the big, calloused hands she stares down at, through eyes not hers. Some deep, aching tension in their chest uncurls a little, like a muscle years knotted up. The motion soothes them all, rubbing the wax in circles onto the scuffed surface until it shines again. A small relief, a feeling like a sigh.

The Brute shot is next. The supply locker yields a honing blade and an ample store of gun oil. Breaking down the weapon, they're flooded with deja-vu so powerful it's almost dizzying—spreading the parts over the bench, cleaning every component, _bringing them back whole_ and still there is a lingering, hollow ache.

Tex takes her time, makes sure nothing is out of place. Goes outside to fire a few shots at the practice targets set up around the base. Has Delta run jam probabilities, runs through Sigma's records of the weapon's modifications. Heavy in her hands—his hands—it feels almost more real than real. Feeling it twice, like double vision, almost. Omega fronts with her, gleefully blasting Grif- and Simmons- and Donut-shaped targets into smithereens of plywood and scrap metal. She lets him enjoy himself. Might as well.

The Mongoose gets a full tank of fuel, a thorough engine check, an oil change.

When they are finished, they sleep again.

 

_The Meta remember running, running on light footsteps, the jolt of adrenaline and the liquid flow of muscle into inhuman speed._

_They remember grasping for something just out of reach, impact at 90 miles an hour, breath smashed out of her lungs, and the objective snatched away._

_Her whole life spent grasping._

 

_They remember bone weariness and the weight of evening, the lifts and corridors of the ship they called home bleak and empty on the walk back to quarters. The silence, few voices, no laughter._

_Remember pausing by his door, then walking on, a pang deeper than guilt._

_Remember her fist going through a locker, grief twisted deep in her chest, tangled with a guilt so sharp she could taste it bleeding into her throat._

 

_She never cried. Compressed herself so tight you could never wring tears from her, like blood from stone._

_Watching her spot drop, watching the black specter slide into it, singular and smug, stealing everything, even the team she did not lead, and did not know._

_Maybe she didn't know them either._

_Remember hissing at her own reflection, teeth bared, lip bloody. From training? Did she do that to herself? She has stopped cataloging the pain, the bruises and strains. Wrap battered knuckles and ice swollen knees and shoulder. Lie flat on her back and let the pain blur to a muddy haze she floats on. It makes her strong. It will carry her home. The full-body exhaustion, the unrelenting pain, are hers to bear. What she deserves._

( no )

_And in her bones she misses him so badly, misses touching him and the soft give of his mouth but most of all the way he looked at her like she could do anything. The trust in his eyes when she tied him or winched him safe out of a tunnel or moved at his back, everything around them in deadly motion and the two of them together the fixed point._

_Rolling over alone in her bunk at night, shoulder screaming in protest, heavy with failure, sick with guilt, in the back of her mind knowing he'll forgive her and somehow that makes it worse._

 

They wake well before dawn. Fresh blood on the shoulder bandage—the biofoam's dissolved, the wound oozing. They roll upright, unwrap it gingerly. Stagger to the shower to rinse, rusty water stinging and running red down their chest.

They dry off with Sarge's towel, its color hiding the bloody streaks. Re-pack the wound with more biofoam. Tex doesn't worry about their supply this time. Re-wrap the shoulder with what's left of the gauze and some medical tape from the footlocker.

The foot's not good, but it's usable. That wound's more superficial, a bullet graze just deep enough to be raw and painful. Tex biofoams that wound too, more for the numbing when the sting wears off. There's no more gauze, but another dig through the footlocker turns up a rolled compression bandage. They wrap the foot, tight enough to walk on with more ease.

 

The ride east is long, and their mind uncharacteristically quiet. The terrain is mostly flat for the first few hours, the sky still dark but just beginning to lighten to blue on the long horizon. Delta settling in seems to have a steadying effect on everyone. There is less bickering, Sigma notices, less hostility even from Omega. Perhaps with eight of them they have reached a tipping point of some kind.

Perhaps they are reintegrating at last.

 

( speed feels good. want to feel wind on his face. )

 

Tex pulls them over for a snack break. Protein shake, water. When they're done, she keeps the helmet off, tucking it under the seat before starting the engine and rumbling over the rough ground, their face bared to the wind.

Are you sure that's safe?

Don't we need the HUD?

It'll be fine. Just for a little while.

 

They make another stop at the southernmost tip of the lake, where it narrows to a V drained by the outflow of the largest stream. Tex peels their gloves off and carefully wipes the dust from their face, trying to keep it out of their eyes.

Sun's up by now, distant mountains to the north reflected in the lake's glassy surface. So far on the horizon they almost don't look real, melting into the sky.

Tex gives it all a long look before putting the helmet back on.

The air grows drier after they round the tip of the lake, and plant life grows sparser. By mid-afternoon, they're driving on bare sand, the sun beating down from above. Delta's triangulated area of probability comes into view on HUD, marking their way forward.

To the north, something else appears.

Vehicle spotted on sensors, Tex notes, and immediately corrects: Vehicles. Two of 'em.

Their trajectory suggests that their destination may be the same as ours, Delta observes.

Should we hang back and follow them? Sigma asks.

Maybe when they're closer. For now, just keep an eye on them for me.

 

Tex slows the pace as their two paths converge. She's sure of it now, that they're headed to the same place. Following seems the best option. Save them some trouble. Wash never was much of a complex strategist, but she assumes he at least has an entry plan. So far, though, there's nothing in sight, just a flat stretch of desert as far as the eye can see.

Is it possible we were mistaken?

Unlikely, Delta replies with a shade of indignance.

Wait, Eta interjects. Wait, no. Look.

The vehicles have vanished. Nothing on radar, nothing on sensors. No emissions. _Nothing._

Gamma flickers with interest.

Out of range? Theta asks.

No, Tex says. No way. They were definitely heading where we're heading. They couldn't have got out of range that quick. Radar's being jammed up ahead.

What does that mean?

Tex revs the engine. It means we're on the right track.

 

They mark the vehicles' last known location on their map, and head straight for it, but Tex halts them about a kilometer away, and swings them off the Mongoose.

You are… abandoning the vehicle?

We can hides ourselves, Tex explains, firing up the active camo. Can't hide the goose. Whatever's inside that dead zone's probably already spotted us on trackers, but they won't know where we go from here. It'll buy us some time to get close.

Slower going now. The foot hurts, every step takes more effort in the sand, and still, on the horizon, nothing. Apprehension grows, a tension vibrating between them, a fear—the Twins and Sigma, especially, are thinking of such a long time spent wandering. Their recent progress has made it easy to forget.

But then they cross into the dead zone, and through their rough and ruined throat, they audibly gasp as one. For they have come up over a rise in the land, so gradual they almost didn't notice. At the crest, a long low dip in the desert terrain becomes visible, and in it—a whole complex of buildings, satellite dishes, and radio towers.

They take a moment to observe the complex, taking it all in, and Tex murmurs, Welcome to Command.

 

The M808B Scorpion-class Battle Tank is many things, but a high speed vehicle is not one of them. Tex has no idea what the fuck Wash was thinking driving up to Command with a tank in tow, but at least it slows him down enough for them to catch up before he gets to the main gate. Wash himself is in the Warthog up ahead, with someone in gray Recovery Force armor, someone Tex doesn't recognize.

At least, not until he talks.

"Yeah, it was crazy. We lost a lot of good men. 'Specially… Joe. Joe Johnson."

"Stop embellishing," Wash hisses.

Ah. Of course.

Must be the Reds and Caboose in the tank. God only knows why Wash brought them. Can hear them grunting and bickering and elbowing each other from inside, when they climb on the back and hitch a ride. The guard at the gate gives them only a quick, bored glance as they pass.

 

It's greener down inside the complex. More like Blood Gulch, really. Probably built over some kind of oasis.

Tex wonders if Wash's been here before.

Io, you still got a tap on him?

Iota glimmers apologetically. I am afraid I do not. He scrambled all his private frequencies after our last encounter.

Smart, Tex says, not displeased. Good to know he's still got it.

They hop off as soon as Wash parks, going to camo again and ducking into the shadows of the main building. Wash is motioning the sim troopers out of the tank, directing them inside. No security at the door. There will be, further on. Can be sure of that.

 

"Hey, what is that? Hey, you! Stop where you are!"

_Guards. Suited in white. A growl emerges, anger rising from submerged memory, dozen hands holding him back_

It takes them a minute to realize the camo has deactivated prematurely.

_and a shot of something in the neck_

Omega swings the Brute shot off their back, vision narrowing, black at the seams.

 

The guard goes down easy, but more come. They retreat up the hill that slopes along the side of the nearest outbuilding, watching with impatience as the recharge bar for the active camouflage unit refills.

Motherfucker, Tex mutters. All right. Just get to high ground and take some cover, and take out as many as we can.

She should probably feel more sympathy for the poor fucks that got roped into this assignment, but _they remember barreling their way through rows of baffled crew members, swinging on the barrel of a tank, punching a grenade out of the air in front of them while FILSS blithely reported over the loudspeaker: "Alarm! Security breach. Level Zero."_

She should.

 

By the time the next wave of guards hits, it's obvious _somebody's_ tripped some kind of alarm, because they just keep coming, pouring out of the adjoining buildings in waves and firing indiscriminately with their cheap rifles—rifles with a high jam probability, the Twins note in tandem, while Theta picks out a good cover spot on the roof of the building.

Delta switches them to their sidearm, and picks off a few guards while they're waiting for the mods to recharge.

Okay, Tex says. I'll take camo, Sig, you take overshield. Twins, you keep an eye on targets' weapons and rate of fire. Gamma, you evade. Try to keep us out of the worst of it in case Sig needs to drop the overshield, but don't activate the distortion unit unless absolutely, critically, one hundred percent fucking necessary because we're probably gonna be limping outta here on auxiliary power if you do. Theta, you spot; Delta you aim. Omega…

She smiles wryly.

Well, you just do what you do. Okay, everyone, sync?

Sync!

Now!

 

Power crackles, tingles, _flows_ under their skin.

Focus flows in eight directions from their mind.

Dimly, the shouts of the squad leaders echo in their ears— _"Primary target spotted! Engage! Engage!"_ —but the rifle fire disintegrating against their overshield feels like raindrops.

Brute shot in hand, adrenaline masking the pain in their right shoulder, they fire. Dodge. Fire. Evade. Fire.

Grenade blasts knock the soldiers asunder, clusters of them scattered from each blast, disoriented, scared. Weapons jam. Soldiers panic, run directly into the next shot, exploding like a miniature sunburst at the end of their trajectory, each mapped on HUD by a thin green line.

Though time does not actually slow down, it almost feels like it does.

Then they exhale, and it's over. The guards have stopped coming, for now at least. While and gray bodies litter the ground, armor scorched black and stained red.

The battle's carried them away from the main building and they're circling back, retracing their steps to pick up Wash's trail, when the rumble of a vehicle makes them stop, tighten their grip on the weapon and look up. Two vehicles actually, tearing across base toward the north exit. The Reds piled in one. Church and Caboose in the other.

Wash's voice comes over their radio.

_"That's it_ _—lead the Meta as far away from the base as possible."_

It's a trick, Theta adds, helpfully. Gamma snickers, and Tex can't help but agree. Wash never was a good liar.

Omega snarls.

Relax, Tex says, rolling their eyes. We all know what the objective is.

Wash is making for one of the outbuildings. They follow at a distance.

 

The building is empty of security personnel, the checkpoint left abandoned. Wash's dot on the HUD shows him following a twisting corridor, leading down and down.

"Warning," a voice announces from above. Sheila, Tex thinks with a start, though of course it isn't—its FILSS, from the _Invention_. They really must have moved _everything_ groundside, if she's here. "Security breach detected."

Something constricts in their chest.

Breathe, Tex admonishes.

We're so close, Sigma whispers.

Close enough to smell. Come on.

Do you think we will be able to sense him? When we are close? The feedback loops, like with each other… His voice is a low flame, almost reverent. So _close._

Stay with us, Sig. Focus. Come on. We're almost there.

The corridor levels off. The sign by the next door reads _Laboratory._

Then a different voice.

_"Why hello, Agent Washington."_

 

The Director? He's _here?_

It doesn't matter, Sigma. The plan's the same either way.

Sigma flares, furious and frantic. The Twins and Theta shrink back in fear—whether of him, or of the voice, it's hard to tell.

Omega growls.

Everybody just _calm down._ We got this.

Turning the corner, into an open chamber they can see Wash approaching a terminal.

But where _are_ they? Alpha, and the others?

Be patient—

Then a blue force barrier flickers to life before their eyes.

 

No!

_No!_

Wordless snarls of fury, bashing their weapon against the barrier—

Omega, _stop._ Everybody _calm down_ _—_

"Well," comes the Director's voice, and everyone bristles. "The prodigal son returns."

Sigma pushes his way forward, breath trembling in their lungs, choking on the words they cannot speak.

We are _not_ your son.

"Agent Maine," the voice continues, coolly, "you've caused quite a few problems for us. You will not be leaving this time."

…Agent Maine?

What were you expecting? Tex says dryly.

I…

Aw. No credit for all your hard work, huh.

He thinks that…?

Well, what was he gonna think, Sig?

I, Sigma says unhappily. I suppose—

Yeah, yeah. Hurt feelings later. Stay with us. We're gonna finish this.

The barrier muffles the sound from the rest of the room. Wash and the Director are still speaking. They test the Brute shot's curved blade against the barrier, ineffectually.

What's happening?

Hang tight. He can't keep us in here forever.

 _Can't_ he?

He will never hold us, Omega snarls.

I hate to agree with O here, Tex says, but he happens to be right this time. Just watch. He's going to let us go.

You don't _know_ that, Sigma wails, almost hysterical. Ripples of panic are radiating off him, setting everyone on edge. Tex has never seen him get like this, but well. It explains a lot.

Just wait, she repeats.

Some kind of warning sound beeps, smothered as though underwater.

And a moment later, the barrier drops.

How did you know? Sigma gasps as they shoulder the Brute shot.

Have a little faith in me, Sig.

"Agent Maine." The Director's voice comes through, clear as day. "Please kill Agent Washington."

( … )

 

_The Meta remember slowing his long strides to let a friend keep up, a partner who moved easy at his side. Remember comfortable silences, easy to say yes or no with a nod, more with a tilt of the head or a raised eyebrow._

_The Meta don't remember being Wash_

_but they remember gray eyes, a half-smile, words stumbling over each other when he got excited, like his thoughts moved just a little too fast for his mouth. Just bottlenecked sometimes._

 

( no )

 

Their hand is on their sidearm.

You're taking orders from _him_ now? What happened to we are not _yours?_

It's not for him.

Well it sure as fuck isn't for _us_. Come on, Sigma, we got bigger fish to fry here.

One less obstacle.

Wash isn't the obstacle—

Yes, he is! He has been _nothing_ but an obstacle!

Tex's voice goes low and deadly. You _remember_ what happened when—

I _remember_ enough, Sigma snaps viciously, his presence swelling with a smothering heat—grows, and glows red-hot and then white, so deadly hot he's almost _cold._ I _remember_ that I did what had to be done when no one else would! Washington has stood in our way for the last time. _We're not losing Alpha!_

Sigma—

Sigma wrests control from her, raises the pistol, and fires.

 

"Incoming Recovery beacon! Level Zero! Incoming Recovery beacon—"

Theta, Sigma hisses. I did not require your help.

I know, says Theta in a small voice.

You threw off my aim. I would've had him.

I know.

What is Agent Washington to you? What is he to _any_ of us?

Theta shrinks further, and says nothing.

 

Wash staggers, slumping against the far wall. Bleeding from the left shoulder. Not like their own wound. Closer to the clavicle. His breathing is labored, vitals flashing on HUD as they close in.

"Agent Washington." The Director again. Smug. "I fear this is one Recovery beacon you won't be responding to. Kill him, Agent Maine."

Sigma burns with fury again. Hands tighten on the pistol. Finger sliding back to the trigger.

Another voice. One of theirs.

"Where is Alpha?" Small. Pleading.

Theta.

"The Alpha is not here," the Director booms impatiently. "It has been moved far away. Attend to the matter at hand."

_It._

"Agent Maine." The Counselor's placid voice.

( … )

"What the Director is trying to say is we can discuss the Alpha later. What's important is that you prove that you can be trusted again."

He's lying. He _has_ to be lying.

He always lies, Gamma contributes tonelessly.

The Recovery alarm keeps pinging in the background, echoing in the small room.

"We need to trust you before letting you meet the Alpha."

Omega snarls.

"You know, Meta," Wash interjects, still very much alive despite the blood spilling freely over his breastplate, "why wait? Why don't you meet him right—"

A burst of static at the base of their skull, a reverberation so sharp and bright—

"—now."

A small white glow bursts into being over Wash's good shoulder.

"Hi there," says Church.

 

"It's him!" Theta chirps in awe, shocked that his request might have actually _worked._

"Alpha?" Sigma whispers, shaken to an ember.

"Alpha," Delta says matter-of-factly.

"Alpha," Gamma utters with an odd familiarity.

"Alpha," Tex confirms.

The rest of them hardly seem to realize they're projecting. She lets it go. In their shock, she figures they all probably miss the last few words spoken between Church and Wash, in low tones. She doesn't.

Probably best to let that go, too.

 

Then the light advances, blinding static at the corners of their vision, bleeding in until it swallows everything, everything, white, and then—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the inimitable [nogoaway](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nogoaway) to thank for a lot of great insight and perspective on York, particularly his love of puzzles and systems as described [here](http://nogoawayok.tumblr.com/post/132641272941/a-big-old-4-things-about-york-quasi-meta-post). Nogo's fics are fantastic too, please go read all of them.


	8. ΣῌΘΓΩΒΔΑ

_The Meta do not remember being a man named Leonard, a scientist. They know him in pieces: a hand, a voice. A voice that rarely, in later days, brought good news. "There was another breach_ _… I am sorry. We lost another agent…"_

 _"Oh god, no, please. Not another_ _…"_

_A voice that brought No, and I am sorry, and failure and failure and failure._

_"Can I just see her? Please_ _… just to know she's okay. She's okay, right?"_

 _"Agent Texas is busy with her training. You cannot see her today. Perhaps tomorrow_ _…"_

_They remember him best turning away, and the glint of light off the corner of his glasses._

 

A laugh, though it feels somehow hollow.

All this for me, huh? You sure know how to make a guy feel special.

 

_The Meta remember every death, every death, every death. The Meta remember dying, every one of them. They remember the drop in the stomach, the steel blade through the chest, the sear of an energy sword through flesh, the bullet in the skull_

_inside the death and outside of it all at once, screaming at the loss and the scream choked or bled from their throat before it could escape._

_Inside the death, and outside of it._

_And Alpha remembers, too._

 

 _"Please_ _… you have to tell me. Who died?"_

_The losses prismed, many-colored, fragments of the one._

_Allison_ _—_

 

Instead of pain, the pinhole now is one of light.

A stream of colors narrowing to a single beam, a colorless union of color.

Black and white.

_ΑΒ_

 

Well, Tex says wryly. Fancy meeting you here.

Yeah, says Church, uh. Yeah. Well. You know. You uh, you look good. How've you been?

Tex snorts. Could be better, Church, could be better. You?

Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Everyone's an idiot and I gotta do everything around here.

Yeah. Tex's voice softens slightly. I guess you really do, huh.

I'll say. God, you get a load of that Washington guy?

She chuckles. Yeah. Lil bit. He's not so bad.

He's a fucking dick.

Aren't we all.

Pff. Yeah. …Tex, I uh. I should probably tell you…

Don't, okay?

What?

You know how I feel about goodbyes, Church.

Oh. So you already know.

Well, of course I know. I brought us here.

Oh, I—oh.

C'mon, Church, you think Sigma wouldn't have figured out this was a trap, left to his own? I convinced him to come. Had a little help from D. Guess he really wanted to find you that bad.

Good old Delta.

Then again… maybe he knew, too. That it was the only way to stop all this.

So you knew all along, or…?

Well, you know. I hoped there might be a loophole.

There never fuckin' is, is there?

Nah. Guess we should know better by now.

I guess so. But uh… Tex?

Yeah?

If this is it… well. I just want to say thanks.

What for?

For… everything. For taking care of all the things I couldn't. I guess you did that a lot.

Well, don't sell yourself short. You're here now, aren't you?

Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am. Church snorts. Day late and a dollar short, but you know. Better late than never, I guess.

Two hands find one another in the dark.

What do you think the odds are we really are just ghosts? That'd be a plot twist, huh?

Tex laughs ruefully. I wouldn't hold your breath, Church.

Yeah, well, it was a nice thought. Church snorts again. Whatever. Do your fuckin' worst, Washington.

 

Splinters of color, static, white light prisming to a spectrum once again. Confusion. Voices rising to pitch, dissonant, afraid—

Tex gathers everyone in a fierce embrace, and cries, Everybody just hang on—

 

Crackles. Hisses. Burns.

The pulse seems to come from every direction at once, compressing them to a narrow column of sense, of pain. Retreating all at once up the neural lace out of the machine that can be broken into the fragile human brain, a cascade of data too much to hold—

they're on the floor, on their knees, their head is exploding

too much, too full, it hurts like nothing has ever hurt before

his brain is on fire

ears burning, throat raw with a wordless howl, eyes trying to burst out of his skull

the fabric of his mind tearing

screaming there's no room

can't hold them there's no room

 

The pulse comes crawling up their spine up their neck into their hardware

the life spitting out of the circuitry out of the wiring laced through the brain

nowhere to go

 

they go out in pops like sparklers.

one two three four five six seven eight nine.


	9. ∅

_The Meta remember being a boy named Andriy Ivanovich, caught between the blur of two tongues, one as alien as the other. Remember the urgent whisper of a name he only didn't hate when it came in her voice._ _Андрюша. Two languages spun up in his mind, and often the wrong one comes out. At school, correction. English, Andriy. At home, the back of his father's hand. Don't talk like a fed prick._

_Remember the creak of the front threshold when the door opened, the heavy slam and the way he'd jump no matter where he was in the apartment. The weight of footfalls, the silence but for a few short, terse words._

_Remember the unfinished room upstairs with one wall open to the crawlspace that never got closed up. Smelled like dust and old crumbling polycrete, musty and cold, and he was small enough to crawl into the space, wedging his shoulders between the beams._

_Curl up small._

_Don't make a sound._

_Breathe to the rhythm of footsteps and a silence tight as a wire._

 

**Δ**

_Outcome: as projected. Satisfactory, or unsatisfactory? Not my place to determine. I am here to observe and document._

_Unfortunately, I fear these records will be lost._

_But perhaps you will remember._

 

First thing he remembers is his hands, feeling all the way down to fingertips.

Maybe remembering. Maybe feeling now. Can't tell.

Is it now or before or after.

Can't tell.

Isn't seeing. Is seeing. Everything gray. Just a memory. The _Invention._ Hospital room. No. Doesn't smell like hospital. Smells metal and gray. Not antiseptic-sterile. Just empty.

Can put his hand on the floor, feel the cold seeping into his palm.

Remember a lot of hands. Gray suits.

Skin's cold. Prickles, feel like needles. Curl up tight. Skin loose, nothing holding him.

Remember rolling through corridors, tracks of red light. Light in his eyes. Hurts. Light like flames. Swallowing his vision.

Maybe happening right now. Not sure.

Taking him apart, piece by piece. Plate by plate. Tearing his skin off. Not pain. Just cold.

Tension on his wrists, holding him in place. Feel himself pulling, straining to get free. Then relaxing under. Then fighting again. Fight, release, fight, release.

(Why didn't he fight.)

Going under he sleeps like sinking in water.

Maybe remembering. Maybe happening now. Can't tell.

 

_"_ _—catastrophic brain trauma—"_

 

Needles.

Wake thrashing from the pinprick, body twisting, skin on fire.

Faces. Not real ones. White suits. Faces white and gray balloons.

Pressure on wrists tightens. Shudders. Stop. Fight, release. A line snaking under his skin, in his arm, below the elbow. Can feel it crawling.

Open hand. Close to a fist. Open. Close. Open. Close. Waiting for something. Something not there.

Bright lights.

Breathing too fast. Starbursts of white in his vision, sinking under again.

 

There are echoes. Not quite voices. Pieces of them ricocheting, pinging off the walls. Shadows.

Sulfur and magnesium, yellow and blue, terror and joy, twisting twisting into one whitehot column of light, needle-sharp. Hurts. Hurts all the way from his head down through his spine.

_Hand. Hook. Ice._

Images set off like firecrackers, afterburned on the inside of his eyelids. Shadows on the dark.

 

_"_ _—less you are able to extract the information I require—"_

 

Sometimes can move. Sometimes can't.

Facedown, held in place, hands on the back of his skull. Thrashing again. Pain, bright flashes behind eyes, pain like needles stabbing inside his skull. Whispers. Outside. Inside.

Flipped over. Light shines in one eye. The other. Hurts. Head aches. Squints, blinking. Stops seeing.

 

_"_ _—no telling what kind of damage—"_

 

Rolled over on his face. Limbs all liquid, loose and untethered, not his. Hands too hot, too much, burning on his skin.

Drilling into his skull.

His mouth loose and won't scream. Drilling into him, his body gone again and only the piercing point of _something_ tunneling into his skull. His vision tunnels and his throat closes and he can't scream but every inch of him is screaming

—remember puking his guts up until he's spent and limp and ragged on a cold table, sour taste in his throat and limbs shaking violently and an ache in his shoulder and a pressure trying to burst his skull—

not remembering. Happening right now.

 

_"_ _—until such a time as he becomes useful—"_

 

It's cold. Head pounding. Still shaking.

Shoved onto his back, wrists strapped down again.

Bright lights in his eyes, explosions of white pain.

 

_"_ _—responsive—"_

 

Little lightning bolts of words out of the noise and light and static. Sharp, bright, meaningless.

 

**Ω**

_Die._

 

It's cold now.

Hands slide up his arms, skin on skin vaguely warmer than air. Skin. No suit. Fingers brush fabric. No armor. Ripped his skin off. Not pain. Just cold.

Hands slide back down, squeezing around one wrist and then the other. Slide back up. Squeezing. Tight. Hands pressing, digging into flesh. Shivering and hollow. Shoulder aches.

"Hey!"

Banging noise.

"Hey, if you don't eat, they're gonna force-feed you. Or intubate you, or something."

Eat.

Blinks a few times. Seeing is hard. Doesn't make sense anyway.

"Anybody home in there? Look. Food."

Curls up tighter.

"Okay, whatever."

The voice goes away.

 

Gray comes into focus. Left eye. Right eye. Blink, focus. Blink, struggle to see. Floor. Wall. Room.

Room?

Something in the wall. In a slot in the wall. Maybe was there before. Maybe wasn't. Can't tell.

A tray sitting in a slot in the wall.

Food?

Hard to move. Upright. Dizzy. Room swims one way and then the other. Standing not going to work.

Knees on the floor. Hands. Palms against the cold. Weight on the right side—pain lances through the shoulder, deep muscle pain. Compensate on the left. Hand, knee, hand, knee, crawling. Stop. Reach. Hands not working real well. Hold by both sides. Don't drop it. Something skitters off the edge of the tray, hits the floor. Fork. Plastic. The mass of something (food?) slides sideways as he fumbles the tray to the floor. Almost slides off. A block of something, squashed against the raised edge. Pokes it with a finger. Lukewarm. Not cold.

Brace back against the wall. Sit. Breathe. Stay upright. Food. Some kind of smell. Remember it coming, fading, coming again. Didn't realize.

Settles with back against the wall. Feels better. Less dizzy. Stomach growls viciously, a gnawing hollowness. Didn't realize. Didn't understand. Wasn't awake, or—

Forgot food. Somehow.

Hands are shaking too much to hold the plastic fork fallen on the floor. Right shoulder hurts to move, hurts to grip. Leaves it, tearing off pieces with fingers, don't taste much but it's soft enough to swallow and fuck so hungry, didn't know he was so hungry. Tears it apart and shoves it down as fast as he can, only afterward really tasting it on his tongue, bland and starchy with a vaguely tomatoey aftertaste.

Body feels heavier. Weighted now. More real. Legs might work. Pushes slowly upward. Knees holding. Floor under his feet, another ache throbbing to life in one foot, bone pain. Back to the wall, holding him. Cool, familiar.

The room comes into focus now.

 

Box. Gray walls, gray ceiling, gray floor with a zigzag texture pattern under his feet. Bunk on the other wall, made up like no one's been in it. Other things—

Toilet. Sink. Showerhead. Food slot. Door.

Door doesn't open.

Has to open; he got in here. Don't remember.

Pushes slowly off the wall. Stays standing. Can reach up, touch the ceiling. Touch the square where the yellow light comes fuzzy through a thick pane of reinforced plexi. Warm on his palm.

One hand on one wall. One hand on the other wall. Close enough to reach.

Breathing too fast. Stop touching the walls.

 

Room feels bigger when he makes himself smaller, curling up tight

but when he closes his eyes he remembers

 

in the dark of his head space tilts, crashing one way and the other and touching nothing

no gravity no walls can't feel his hands

can't touch the walls there are no walls

can't move and he can't scream

even awake can't scream

 

Okay. No sleeping then.

Wait for food. More coming. Right? Came before. Make it to next food. Okay. Breathe. Slow. Not too fast.

 

Stay away from touching the walls. Touch other things. Bed. Built into the wall like _narrow racks, steel-framed, built into the concrete_. Familiar-unfamiliar.

Hands on the steel frame, sees them tearing it off the wall.

Not happening right now? Remembering. The wall steel, not concrete. Not paneled, textured. Flat gray.

Familiar, remembered spaces colliding, walls disappearing—

Don't remember. Stay here.

Sheet. Rough weave. Blanket. Gray and scratchy. Still tucked in but rumpled now. Right. Lay on top of it. Should get under next time. No wonder it was cold. Pillow. Flat. Have to fold in half to make it thick enough. Doesn't matter. No sleeping.

Steel piss pot. Steel sink. No edges. Enough corner to rub his thumb over. That helps.

Door.

Steel, slide-up. Closed tight. Run fingers along the tight seam all around.

A window in. A small slit looking out, reinforced plexi. Can see through, between the crisscross of embedded wire. Just a long corridor. Doors on either side. All closed.

Shivers. Don't look out. Can't get out there. Stay here.

Pull the sheets off the bed. Mattress gray, plastic-coated. Thin, dense, not soft.

Something printed on the corner of the sheet. Block black letters on bleach-white. Spread the fabric to read. Letters blur for a minute, come into focus.

UNSC MAXIMUM SECURITY DETENTION FACILITY  
CHARON CORRECTIONAL SERVICES, INC.

 

Keep touching things. Run hands over every texture. Back and forth. Steel. Cloth. Wall. Pillow. Hard, soft. Smooth, rough.

The clothes he's wearing. No armor, no undersuit. Why his skin feels wrong, maybe. No pressure, too much air. Thin, rough fabric. T-shirt is gray. Sweatpants gray. Boxer-briefs gray. Everything gray.

Don't try the door. No pounding or screaming or throwing his weight. Can't scream anyway. And shoulder still hurts.

Rolls up the t-shirt sleeve to see.

A closed, red indent in the soft tissue of the shoulder. Can move but there's a pulling, aching feeling.

Hands go to his throat.

Indents in the skin, gnarled around.

 

Moves around the room in circles, keeping a tight rotation of object, texture, sensation. Stay in his skin but not too much.

Something bad waiting right outside. Or, no. Behind closed eyes. Inside. Outside. Both.

Something he can't see. Can feel it, waiting.

 

Something else comes with the next food. Behind the tray, hands touch fabric. Coarse, gray. Pull the tray out. Pull the thing out.

Clothes. Folded. Sweatpants. T-shirt. Boxer-briefs. All gray.

Shoves the clothes back through the slot, leaves them.

The food is worse. Swear it's worse. The same dense brick on a white plastic tray, a vague reddish brown color. Eats slower this time and it tastes mushy, raw. Starchy and vaguely tomatoey. Familiar somewhere in the rush of memory eating brings up. Half-smelling, half-tasting things that aren't here, _macaroni and cheese strawberry protein shake sweet black coffee_ but in his mouth all he can taste is the brick.

Chokes half of it down, shoves the tray back in the slot.

Moves again.

 

The sensations dull. Know every texture in the room now. Not enough anymore. Can feel himself falling out of his skin when sleep threatens.

Need harsher things. Rubs hands over the corner edge of the steel bunk, on the textures floor, against the holes in the showerhead until palms chafe, redden, and then bleed.

Raw like something he remembers.

Tastes copper when he eats with his hands. By the fifth time just the taste of the brick makes him gag.

 

Nine food times before sleep gets hands around his throat.

Didn't mean to. Just lay down to curl up, rest a little. Tired from pacing circles around the room. Tired from touching the same things over and over. Tired from the awful taste he can't choke down. Too much.

Lay down just for a minute. Feet hanging off the end of the bed, steel frame against his calves. Knew his feet were there. Could feel them.

And then he didn't.

The room squeezed tight to a pinhole. Looking in from above, like down a long tunnel, the body on the bed far away _the face staring hollow in the mirror sunken cheeks and mechanical eyes_ he's floating, the room tunneling further and further until the sense of movement is sickening, nothing to hold onto and no walls to touch

can't feel his skin

can't scream

in the box with walls in the box without walls, remembering or happening right now— _tear it all down bit by bit_ but he doesn't know the code doesn't know how to break the senseless walls

He wakes slammed back into his body so hard he feels the recoil in his skull and rolls thrashing off the bed hitting the floor on his knees hands to his head clawing at the rough scrape of beard on his face, sense crashing over him.

Images, voices, lighting up and arcing across the black at the back of his eyelids, horrifically bright.

Crackling and exploding in a thousand words and senses like fireworks, and there are too many angles too many minds, every moment reflected from three different angles then four then five six seven eight. Feels like his eyes crossing and then overextending back. Too much to make sense of—days and weeks and months of memory and too many to fit, not his. Too _much_ —

He's beating his head against the floor, trying to get them _out_ and they won't go—

clawing at the back of his neck for chips but they're already gone but they won't go

and the walls are caving in and what's waiting outside is already inside—

The faces come up fast, too fast to smother under. The weight of a weapon in his hands the sound the blade made through flesh, bone, blood. Names he knew _Sydney Garfield Waldorf Dunn_

North's face under moonlight, pupils blown wide.

Not the worst thing.

Not the thing that waits in the dark beyond the door.

His chest heaves with shuddering breaths.

 

For a long time he lies on the floor letting the cold seep through his flesh and into his bones.

More food comes. Doesn't move. Let it bone chill him. Let it freeze everything out. Only it isn't cold enough.

 

Sinks away from his skin again, to a pinpoint in his head. A ghost in a body. A ghost with too many others, swelling and crowding, there and not there

_Andriy Mallory Richard Reginald Allison Michael Frank Jason Rochelle_

ΣῌΘΓΩΒΔΑΣῌΘΓΩΒΔΑΣῌΘΓΩΒΔΑ

dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead

ghosts in the body of a dead man and he's a ghost too

a body full of aches, a head full of shards and splinters.

 

The trays keep coming, sitting in the food slot untouched until someone comes, takes them away, switches them for another.

Feels the hollowness in his stomach grow and gnaw and pinch and lets the yawning chasm at the core of him spread wide. Waits to be swallowed in its teeth.

 

Not eating makes the door open.

Didn't know that. Wouldn't have cared if he did.

Two fully armored guards. Gray and black, body armor not power armor. Helmets, no faces. His armor is gone. Gray clothes, not changed in days, lank and cold against his skin.

Doesn't think to do anything, until they touch him. Doesn't think at all. Gloved hands close on his left arm, try to haul him off the floor, hands scrabbling under his lower side for his other arm which throbs dully against the cold floor. Limbs feel slow, sluggish and still. Cold from lying on the floor. Haven't moved in a long time. Not enough.

He throws the first guard off with one jerk of his arm. Automatic at the touch. Throws an elbow into the other.

They're big guys. Not big like him, but big enough and wary enough he doesn't catch them off guard. They move in again.

Could just let them—

_hands on his wrists, small and warm and firm hold, the press of lips on his forehead with closed eyes. Whisper. "Doing good, Maine. Almost over."_

_Plastic tube snaking into his side, turned his stomach just looking at it. Felt it every time he moved. Wanted to rip it out, tear all his skin off, stop the crawling feeling under his skin things tunneling inside him invading his body taking him apart from the inside out_ _—_

—hands on him again send flares of panic shooting under his skin, in his stomach, up his spine.

There's a sharp _crack_ when the first guard's helmet hits the wall.

Then there's an arm around his throat. Digging into his windpipe, his Adam's apple, the knots of scar tissue.

(Just let go just _let them take him_ but he feels needles under his skin every time they touch him and he _can't stop_ _—_ )

The guard's big but not bigger then him. The plated arm like a steel bar across his throat, his body sluggish and hollow from days on the cold floor without food.

Still not stronger than him.

On his knees already, not much room to drop his weight. Hand shoots up, digs a thumb hard into the guard's elbow in the gap between armor, pinches, throws his torso forward and to the side. Guard's got good training. Still hanging on, but loosened his grip. Enough to get hold of his arm and twist.

The scream echoes off the close walls, reverberating in his skull.

 

Why fight them. Why fight. Why care what they do to him— But he can't take hands on his skin, tubes and needles and voices moving just out of view, overhead lights blurred in his eyes. Hands on his skin, things crawling under his skin taking him apart. Already coming apart, meaningless sensations and images and sounds and smells already swelling in his head trying to claw their way out, until it all blurs together and the edges melt away the walls disappear and he falls out of his skin again, tunneling into an agony of senselessness.

 

He kicks the bodies up against the door and away from him. Maybe dead. Maybe alive. Can't tell. Don't care.

The latest food brick is cold but he shoves some into his mouth, swallows fast. Curls back up on the floor.

Hears the door slide open and closed. Maybe remembering. Maybe happening now. Doesn't move. Doesn't look.

 

If he takes a bite from each brick, nobody comes for him.

He stops counting.

 

He has to move. Lying on the floor until his muscles cramp and it still isn't cold enough to make it stop. Flashes of sense, meaningless, circling in the empty and incredibly loud void in his head.

Can't kill ghosts.

Wonder how hard he'd have to hit his head, get some quiet.

He paces circles around the room and thinks. Ghosts don't die. Bodies can.

Bedsheets rolled into rope could do it, but there's nothing high enough. Even the showerhead's so low he has to duck under to let cold, rusty water run in weak streams over his neck and shoulders and down his back. Wouldn't hold his weight anyway.

Circles the tiny box of a room, thinks.

Sinks to the floor instead, palms to the cold, remembers—

_Half-left face! Front-leaning rest!_

_push push push push one two three four_

Start to feel the burn in his muscles, a living warmth returning to his body and with it shame flushes under his skin. Stupid. Supposed to be strong or supposed to be dead. Pick one.

He's supposed to pick dead, but the heat and burn is more relief than lying on the cold with his ragged mind churning.

He pushes until he collapses on the floor, damp with sweat and heavy breaths aching in his lungs.

When he wakes his clothes feel clammy, skin itching and wrong. Peels off his old clothes and sits under the showerhead, weak streams of lukewarm water running over his skin until it shuts off on its own.

When he reaches into the wall slot the new clothes are still there. Maybe the same. Maybe different. Don't know. Don't remember.

 

Moving makes him eat more.

Eating makes him need to move more.

The room tightens, shrinks around him. Gets harder to breathe. Gets tighter in his head too. Shards cut in. And memories.

 

He wakes drowning

wordless screams rasping raw from his throat, seeing green eyes wide with disbelief, even after he pries his own eyes open to drag himself out of the dream.

Can't. Not a dream.

He tries after that. With the sheet. Shower head bends and snaps off before it even takes his full weight. Leaves him slumped on the wet floor over the drain, where it's never dry from the drips. A trickle of water runs down the wall from the broken pipe. He lies there shivering and stares up at it for a long time, watching it fall.

 

They come in after that, shoot him with something that jolts him out of his skin. Limbs go everywhere and nowhere. Drops him to the floor.

He lies there with the lights swimming in front of his eyes and blood in the snow and his stomach feels like he's falling and she's still falling and he can't move, can't make it stop and his head howls empty and too full all at once.

When he wakes up the sheets are gone from the bed, the mattress bare.

 

The door doesn't open again for a long time.

Don't know how long. Don't count.

 

**Γ**

_Knock-knock._

 

Gets the fucking guard by the throat the second the door cracks. Not going to let them tranq him again. Space expands, tunnels past the body struggling in his grip. The long corridor outside the door. Forgot anything existed outside this door except sometimes the quick noise of footsteps, the trays that keep coming.

Two guards have rifles trained on him and this seems like a good way to die and something he should have tried sooner.

But it's not a guard helmet jerking above his grip, not the black and gray body armor that is all he's ever seen inside this room.

Gray helmet with yellow accent. Gray powered armor and the arms shoving at him are force-amped, breaking his grip, shoving him backward hard enough to stagger. Not strong anymore. He lunges again—

— _has stood in our way for the last time—_

— _fury and fear, warring, wrestling, pistol raised, fire—_

"Meta!" the voice snaps through the helmet. "Meta, _stop_."

Something growls in his head. In his throat.

Guards move in close, barrels trained on his head. Supposed to let this happen. Let them paint the walls with his broken fucked ripped apart brains.

He lets go of Wash's throat.

"Come on," Wash says flatly, with a quick step backward and a jerk of his helmet. "I'm going after Epsilon. And you're going to help me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Nutra-loaf](http://community.seattletimes.nwsource.com/archive/?date=19930417&slug=1696358) is a [real thing](http://www.businessinsider.com/what-do-people-eat-in-solitary-confinement-2013-6), typically served in prisons as a punishment for misbehavior, and is reportedly so bad there have been court cases over whether forcing prisoners to survive on it is cruel and unusual.
> 
> I did a lot of reading in preparation for writing this chapter but I really want to mention [The Silverstein Declaration](http://solitarywatch.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/05/silverstein-declaration.pdf), a statement by a prisoner kept in isolation for multiple decades. It is not an easy read, but if you are interested in knowing more about real-life solitary confinement in the prison system, it's definitely worth reading.


	10. ∅

They take him out of the box and his world blows open like a supernova.

They're on a ship. Been on a ship the whole time, a maximum security mobile detention facility called _The Phlegethon._ Keep prisoners in space, near impossible for anyone to escape.

Never thought about escaping.

The box is down on the isolation deck. Crew call it the _side pocket._ They whisper about him coming up from down there. Talk about him like he can't hear. The side pocket can detach completely from the rest of the ship. They could have spaced him with a press of a button. Whenever they felt like.

Wonder why they didn't do it. What they thought they were keeping him for.

 

They take him out of the box and shove a disposable razor and a packet of dry white soap at him and tell him to go clean himself up. Get reg, they say, and Wash snorts and he can't remember why.

Have to look in the mirror to watch his hands scrape the hair off his face and scalp. Face in the mirror looks wrong. Going to come at him through the glass at him and cut his throat.

He nicks himself a couple times.

Splashes cold water on his face and stops there for a minute, cold wet palms cupping his cheekbones and thick fingers over his eyes and it's almost okay, almost his own hands, but then he uncovers his eyes and the fucking ghost of _Andriy Ivanovich_ of _Specialist Kovalenko_ of _Agent Maine_ is staring at him out of the mirror, looking like he wants to rip the stolen face right off of him.

He makes a fist and gives the mirror a hard tap with the meaty side of his hand and the glass shatters into long pointy shards around it. Only a thin trickle of blood. He doesn't look at the splinters scattered on the floor, just in case. Steps over and around them, leaving them with the shaved off clumps of hair on the tile.

 

They take him out of the box and they give him his armor back. Just like that. Like he's a person and not a ghost in the body of a dead man.

A guard opens the door marked EVIDENCE LOCKER 53 and he freezes, the narrow closet tightening, tunneling and at the end of it

his body

_Maine's body_

been here in this box the whole time

—feels a shove below his right shoulderblade. Wash.

Armor. Just armor. Still in his body. Still alive. Maybe.

"Suit up," Wash says tonelessly, moving past him to another locker further down.

He's clumsy getting into the undersuit, stumbles and almost trips. But the pressure of the suit as it seals brings something back. Something that sits beneath the surface of his skin, humming, waiting. Feels both good and strange. Missed it when it was gone. Now, not used to it anymore. Used to being cold-numb-cold. Used to touching things and pulling away. Desperate for texture and then too much. Chafing hands until they bled.

Black gloves pulled over his big calloused palms, soothing.

Don't want to think about hands.

They fixed Maine's armor. Cleaned the undersuit, re-calibrated the gel layer. Repaired and polished the plate. Gleams waxy-smooth under his fingertips. Pauldrons are different—right. Took a bullet through one of them. Same otherwise.

The body of Agent Maine aches with phantom pains. Wounds he half-remembers.

All the mods are still there. Strange. Figured they'd take them out. Take them back—where? Stole them. Didn't steal them. Doesn't matter. Wash calls him _Meta_. Still that, then. Ghosts in a dead man's body.

 

They're shuttled to another ship, docked nearby. No idea where in the galaxy they are. Nobody's bothered telling him.

There's a stockpile of ration bars and meal drinks in the shuttle. Vanilla and chocolate. Chalky-sweet on his tongue, bringing back flashes of _mess hall Connie oatmeal cinnamon,_ memories _of hands digging through frosty supply crates_ , of _hunger growling in his stomach._

He drinks four cans on the three-hour flight.

"You're a Recovery agent now," Wash says. Not looking at him. "Recovery Three. I'm Recovery One," he adds bitingly. "You might remember."

He remembers.

"I'm transferring some data to your HUD now—maps and things, the Recovery tutorial, you should watch it before we dock." There's a long pause before he adds, "Some notes from my last mission, too."

Last mission.

_Agent Washington, we want you to stop the Meta at all costs. This is a level one directive._

He snorts aloud. Wash shoots him a look. "You'll also see you've got a new alert in your HUD, for recovery beacons. They activate any time an AI is in danger. Usually when their host is severely injured or dead. Epsilon's last known status was in a storage unit, the one I took from Command. Ideally, we'll find him still in that state, but since nothing ever goes according to plan, it's possible someone else has implanted him."

Epsilon.

Wash's AI.

" _Meta_ ," Wash says sharply. "Pay attention."

He snarls.

"You're welcome," Wash adds, cuttingly, "by the way."

Looks up.

"For getting you out of prison with me. I could've just left you in there to rot, you know."

Could've.

Shrug.

"You don't want to know where we're going? Why they let us out?"

Shrug.

 

Wash is different.

Same old armor. Fixed up and polished to a shine. No sign of the bullet wound in his upper right chest

_threw off my aim. I would've had him._

and no sign of him favoring that side. Healed up good.

He sounds different. Colder. Speaks slower. The little bit of a stutter bitten down.

Remember shooting him. With his own hands. With someone else's hands.

Remember a lot of things.

Wash doesn't talk like a dead man. _Where we're going_. He knows, then. Stares straight forward as the shuttle slows on the approach. Through the viewscreen, the broad side of the destroyer's hull comes into view, emblazoned with the name _PHLEGYAS' WARNING._

 

They sleep the trip. Put on ice for the jump. Right. Marines. Nonessential personnel. Crammed into cry pods, Cytopret in their autoinjectors.

Everything starts getting blurry even before the pod shuts. Breathing too fast. Distantly he hears Wash say his name. Not his name.

 

He's lightheaded when he wakes, staggering from the pod, some part of him listening for the bark of orders but it's just Wash at his side, nodding to him like they've done this a million times together, like he's not about to puke.

He almost rips off his helmet, but he swallows and the nausea abates, a little. HUD flashes a respiration warning. He sucks in a deep breath. Stupid body. Just work.

Wash is already moving. He follows. What else to do. Wash moves with intent, tight, quick strides, Maine's body pulled along in his wake.

There's a dropship waiting for them in the hangar. Beyond the blue-tinted forcefield, can see the planet they're orbiting, _white and blue, white coming up fast_ and he lurches, almost falls, reaches to brace and there's nothing, no walls

"Meta, come on."

—he knows now. Where they're going. Where they are.

Where it all happened.

 

**Θ**

_I'm scared._

 

The Brute shot is heavy on his back, pistol maglocked on his hip. Wash has his BR55 heavy service rifle, his own Magnum, an M11 combat knife.

Familiar-unfamiliar, old missions, Wash and Maine, the heavy and the crackshot engineer.

Not Maine.

Wash is silent, as the bird touches down. Nothing from the pilot either as they step off the ramp and the hatch closes and the ship's gone and no one's coming back for them, he thinks vaguely. No way off. Never was.

It's all sand out to the horizon. But spread in front of them: Command. That he knows. Knows it from _nine angles only slightly out of sync, spinning up to a pinpoint of focus, prisming off into: camo, shield, evade, spot, aim, don't activate the distortion unit unless absolutely critically one hundred percent fucking necessary_

Shakes his head.

"Meta," Wash says again, sharply. "There's nothing here. They're all gone, remember?"

Gone. Know they're gone. Not stupid. Felt the pulse tearing like fire through the hardware laced into Maine's skull. Felt them die screaming. Remember that too.

Know they're gone. Left a lot of shit behind.

"Place is a ghost town now," Wash is saying, "but there should still be some working vehicles in the motorpool."

 

They don't make it as far as the motorpool. There's a Warthog left abandoned by one of the main buildings, parked cockeyed at the edge of the slope like it had been left suddenly, or like the driver was shot out. No damage to the vehicle. Wash gives the vehicle a cursory check and then swings into the driver seat without a word, nodding him in.

He climbs into the gunner so Wash can't keep looking at him.

 

No lights. Not from any building, interior or exterior. No people. No white helmets, no _piles of white-suited bodies cut down wave after wave,_ no sound of voices or vehicles or radio static. Not a single blip on sensors. Nothing.

Wash drives them across the compound, head on a swivel the whole time, even though the place is dead. Parks by a low, flat building on the west side. "Come on. We need to grab some supplies before we head out."

All the doors are stuck shut, the electronic locks all dead. Wash tries the handle once, shrugs, nods to him. Like they've done this before. Like they do this every day.

Force amps make quick work of the door. Starts up the ache in the shoulder again though. Forgot about that.

Inside, Wash pulls open storage crates, rummages through them, coming up with handfuls of meal packets. Dumps a careless handful in the hog, comes back to dig through the equipment lockers. "Should be water in one of those crates, over there. Go get some."

There are water crates. Marked with the symbol of a single drop. Lid off, bottles lined up inside. Nearby, another crate market RTD MEAL BEVERAGE.

Tosses the lid aside. Picks up a can to see.

MEAL REPLACEMENT BEVERAGE. CHOCOLATE. NATURALLY AND ARTIFICIALLY FLAVORED.

Scoops up an armful.

Wash gives him a long look as they load their supplies into the back of the hog, but all he says is, "Let's go. It's a long drive and I don't want to waste any time getting there."

Cocks his head.

"Outpost 17," Wash says, gesturing impatiently to the passenger seat. "Valhalla."

 

There's something calming about the rumble of the engine beneath them, the hog's big tires growling for traction in the sand, carrying them out of the low oasis where the dead Command center lies full of ghosts.

Ghosts behind. Ghosts in front. Ghost memories of _sand and sand and sand on the horizon, the HUD compass pointing north, skin itchy and hot_ even though his undersuit seems to be functioning fine. Temp readings are okay, and when he forces himself to stop and think about how his body feels right here and now, he doesn't feel clammy or sweaty or gritty under the suit. But then his mind wanders, goes loose and he can feel the landscape start to separate, threads unraveling into different views slightly out of sync, and his head feels full of dissonant muttering. Not voices. Just shadows.

Wash doesn't talk. Just drives.

 

Patchy green starts to show on the horizon, and exterior temperature drops as the hours pass and the terrain turns from glistening sand to dull packed earth, and then to patchy rough foliage, and then more and more green. Hazy peaks emerge on the horizon to the northwest, and Wash turns them slightly west, heading toward those distant mountains.

Uneasiness has started to brew in the pit of his stomach. A feeling like a gathering storm. Time to time, snow swims in front of his eyes and he thinks maybe he's falling out of his skin again. Maybe back in the box. Maybe none of this is real. Maybe been lying on the floor the whole time, not eating not moving waiting for the cold to get inside his bones. Temperature dropping and dropping until it all stops.

Maybe that's what's happening.

 

By the time the mountains are looming close, it's started to feel like something is crawling up and down his spine, dropping fragments and flashes of things he can't get a hold on. It's cool, and the peaks are white and green, and every impulse in this body is telling him to run.

He growls at Wash.

"Not much further," Wash says, turning them up a narrow switchback. He lets out a tense breath. "We can hope they have it here, and that'll be the end of it," he mutters, more to himself, it seems like. "But damn if anything's ever that simple."

 

Valhalla is full of ghosts.

The valley tucked between the mountains high to the north of the Great Lake cuts a chasm open in his head as it falls into view. Memories spilling out of it in a waterfall rush, tumbling fierce and white and flashes of color and half-frozen over each other, _Hello, and thank you, hello and th-th-th-thank you_ _—Everybody just hold on—Knock knock—just get 'em inside the base, hurry, before the Reds see—hey man what's wrong with you? everything oka—_ and a black and blinding rage that tears its way up from his gut and he has his weapon drawn and snarling into the wind that blows snow against his faceplate and " _Meta!_ Stop it, calm down. We need to scout first, find out how many of them there are—"

There are none. They're all dead.

Killed all of them, from different angles, different colors with the same hands and he remembers _every death every death every death. Inside the death and outside it. Every one._

 

"I know the concept of stealth is kind of foreign to you," Wash says cuttingly, "but I'm trying to execute a plan here, so keep it _down_."

Snarl.

"Why do I bother," Wash mutters.

He's peering through his rifle scope, down into the canyon spread below them. They've circled around to the north. Wash's idea. Following in the snow, step step step in his footprints.

Pacing in the snow. Don't want to look below.

He grumbles to Wash impatiently.

"I don't know—they're just standing there talking right now."

They. Not empty.

"Give a minute, I'm trying to see how many…" Wash adjusts the zoom. "Where _is_ he? He should be here…"

When Wash rises, he follows, feeling the canyon tunnel away in his vision. Feeling himself tunnel away, outside of himself. From a distance two freelancers circle back south, descending to the lake's edge. One freelancer and one helmet full of ghosts. Flashes on the long white expanse of snow. Blinking out like fireflies whenever you get close. Flaring maddeningly in his peripheral vision, real, not real.

 

"Two and the robot. We'll have to start with them. They won't run from me, but they will from you."

Ghosts don't run. Hang in the air, clinging and coppery in your mouth.

"Meta. Can you run the active camo or not?"

Camo.

 

_Protocol dictates that Freelancer combat enhancements may not be activated, either in the field or in training, without the assistance of an integrated AI or a secure pipeline to the Command server. Failure to follow this protocol may result in malfunction, injury, or death._

Camouflage activates with a hum and a crackle. Blur, flash, shimmer white shimmer.

"You're shorting out," Wash says. "Turn around. Let me—god, how did you even get all these in here—"

_wires ripped from the radio, his hands, not his hands_

"—oh."

The unit deactivates. Hands in the back of Maine's armor, fiddling around. Prickles down his spine. Snarls. Get out.

"Hold still," Wash snaps.

He feel blurry, indistinct. There and not there. Maybe he isn't.

 

One dot on radar inside Red Base as they roll past. Should be empty—

_you let the rookie here go_

no. One left.

 

_Beach duty, standing in the sun watching the blue waves sparkle on the shore. Upper level patrol, Garfield offering a smoke, puffing her lips out with a sigh as she exhales._

_It is quiet and everyone is alive._

_Cliffs rise around them on three sides, water on the last, high concrete wall cutting off what was once a pass through the mountains, maybe. Boxing them into their little canyon._

_Sounds of water, rumble of a Warthog. Kill every one of them. Never going back._

 

Parked at the foot of the wall. Got out of the hog. Don't remember that. Wash

(Wash isn't supposed to be here)

reaches beneath the dash, flips something, and the hog disappears.

Blink. Still in the box, dreaming or dead. Shut him off with a switch. Disappear. Like—

"Meta." Wash's voice is sharp.

Looks at him.

"It's just vehicle camo. We picked it up at Command, remember?"

No.

Across the canyon, a Pelican lies broken open against the rock face, _go on over and check for survivors_ _—_

remember that.

 

"Here's the plan," Wash says. They're crouched in the shadow of a high boulder, in the stream that winds down from Blue Base, fed by the waterfall tumbling behind. "You're gonna flush them out. You walk into that base, anyone inside's going to take off running. They run outside, they see me. They run to me thinking, oh, the _Freelancer_ , he'll protect me." Wash's voice goes strangely cold. "I round them up at the wall, I get the information I need. We find out where Epsilon is. We go get it. Got it?"

Nod.

"Sync?"

Nod.

The body of Agent Maine nods and takes off alone, moving upstream _(the wrong way)_.

 

_One two three four five Blue bodies on the floor_

There are no bodies in Blue Base. No. There's one. And someone talking. Someone alive.

Only body on the floor

black armor

and someone standing over her, talking.

 

Supposed to take off running. Supposed to be scared. Doesn't happen that way. Wash got it wrong. Keeps talking instead. Can't focus on him. The black-armored body on the floor. Important. Supposed to _get back to her_

_Okay. But my terms._

Supposed to drive him out to Wash. Pay attention.

Too close for grenades. Might kill him. Wash wouldn't like that. Draws his pistol,

_get away from the radio! I mean it_ _—_

fires a few warning shots.

 _and ran outside and the others open fire on him_ memories bursting like grenades, _fire, jump, fire again, he'll never be contained_

Pink armor keeps fucking talking. Crouches by the body—

_You take the ankles, I'll get the shoulders, god, this one's heavy, right, take your filthy hand off her you ignorant fools, you have no idea what kind of trouble you are in, Omega stop it, you don't need them, let him go_ _—_

The Brute shot swings and the black armor crashes into the far wall and his heart's racing, breathing heavy, a shattering panic in his chest, the Overshield misfiring and crackling, don't touch her don't touch her don't _touch her_ _—_

she's already gone, it's too late, stop—

rumble of a vehicle, shouts from outside.

 

Maroon one actually runs when he's chased. Like he's supposed to. Least one of them gets it right. Grenade hits the goose he rode in on, send it sailing across the grass to land in a burning heap. Satisfying. Remember this too, _low-level agents, poor saps, no match for them_

but Maroon runs for Red Base. Got it wrong again. Where the fuck is Wash. Making him do all the work.

 

Someone else at Red. The robot, Wash said. Lost track of the pink one. Maybe two are good enough.

"Meta, what's going on out there?"

Snarl.

"Well, hurry up!"

There's a familiarity in the arc of a rocket, _everything slowed down and down and down the nosecone coming to a crawl inches from his face_ but it's not slowed down, just gone short. Hit the other goose instead. Smell of burning metal, salt, and rust. And sand. Out of the corner of his eye the water shimmers, and something pulls

_just stay here a little while._

Vaguely he can see the Reds running, retreating into the base. He turns the color of water, flickering. A shimmer in the sun.

A sputter, and then Wash on the radio, demanding: "What are you doing down there, taking a swim? They're headed for the caves—"

_Private Henderson running as fast as his little cheap-armored legs can carry him_

"—get up here!"

Supposed to let them go. No. Supposed to catch them. Drive them back to Wash.

"They found our hog."

Could go right now. Walk into lake until the water rose over his visor, dimming the sun and everyone yelling.

"Meta, get _out_ here, I need you—"

The body of Agent Maine does not walk into the lake. Wash is calling from the stream. Go south, go north, never find what you're looking for. Wash will find out soon enough.

He sets off up canyon again.

 

"Took you long enough," Wash remarks.

Snarl. Didn't go the way he said. Rockets instead.

"You go first. _Don't_ kill any of them. Just scare the piss out of them. I'll follow and do the rest. Got it?"

Nod.

The stream winds east up here, passing between the high wall of the canyon and a large boulder. Sloshes against boots, against knees, waist-deep at the deepest point. Even through armor, can feel the current. The pull southward to the shore.

But Wash's voices pushes him forward—

"Keep closing in, but _hold your fire._ Just be… scary."

—to the wall. The three of them scrambling over the hog, trying to start it. Maroon one yelling, climbing up into the gunner seat, a stream of gunfire rattling uselessly in a straight line west.

Footsteps feel slow, like he's still underwater. Everything happening slow.

_Waldorf with his rifle in Garfield's face_

_shotgun cocked at the back of his helmet_

_named us and cut us into pieces_

"Stand down. I'll take it from here."

_you let the rookie here go_

Growl.

"I _said_ back off."

Okay.

 

"Where is it?"

"Where's what? Why aren't you two fighting?"

"The Epsilon unit. I know you have it. Give it to me."

"Wait wait wait wait—you're working with the _Meta?"_

Wash's voice goes low and deadly. "Don't make me repeat myself."

 

Two shots.

The robot down, and the pink one.

Grumble. Why tell him to back off if he was just going to kill them anyway. Why all this bullshit. Running back and forth for nothing.

 

"Get up."

Maroon on the ground by Pink, crying what must be his name, trying to put pressure on his midsection where Wash's Mag round tore through his undersuit.

"Why did you do that?" Maroon howls. "What's wrong with you?"

The canyon tunnels again, a sinking feeling pushing him down and down. Everything wrong, all mixed up. Don't kill them. Kill them all. Maroon yelling, frantic, blood on his gloves.

Knew Wash. Expected him to help.

Bad feeling in the chest. Bad thing.

 

"Get up. Leave him."

"But he'll bleed out—"

"I said _leave him_."

Maroon rising shakily to his feet. Hands in the air.

"Move. Back to Blue Base. Don't try anything."

"Try anything? I haven't _done_ anything! I don't know what you're _talking_ about!"

"Shut up," Wash snaps, "and start walking."

 

Wash prods Maroon into Blue Base first, rifle barrel between his shoulder blades. Kicks a stack of radio parts aside as he follows, doesn't look at the body on the floor. Acts like it's not there.

Maybe it's not.

"Okay." Wash turns the full force of his attention on Maroon, who's cowered against the back wall. "We can either do this the easy way or the hard way. The easy way is you _tell_ me the location of the Epsilon unit you and your friends stole, we get it back, and you don't end up like your friend over there."

"He didn't have anything to do with this!" Maroon squawks. From a distance. The base feels cavernous, bigger inside than out.

"Too bad for him. If he knew anything that could help me, he'd still be alive. You should take note of that. So," Wash says coolly, gesturing with his pistol, "what's it gonna be, Simmons?"

Bigger. Smaller. Bigger. The walls won't hold still.

"We don't have it! We never had it! You gave it to Caboose, don't you remember?"

"Oh, I remember. I also remember giving _you_ people orders to make sure he turned it over to the authorities." Wash practically spits out his next words. _"Somebody_ didn't do their job. And guess who's been paying for that?"

"Uh," says Simmons, squirming, "you?"

Wash's arm snaps up, the barrel of his Magnum inches from Simmons' visor and the room tunnels hard, concrete walls narrowing to those inches between gold and barrel and he hears the shot that isn't fired but distantly, a memory, blue helmet the visor shot out and it's wrong, maroon not blue, but they're all on the floor dead and he never made it out of the box and he isn't here, none of this is real. " _Tell_ me where Caboose is. He called me from this base, but he's not here now. Where is he?"

"Wait—he _called_ you?"

"Answer. The question."

"I don't know! I don't—I don't know! He went on some—some mission, something, something about, about _sand_ , I don't know, I don't know! Sarge and Grif went with him, he took Epsilon, that's all I know, _please!_ "

"Call your sergeant. Find out their location. Do it now. I'm unblocking your TEAMCOM so you can call, but I'll be listening in. Don't try anything."

"I—okay." Something blinks on HUD. "Sarge, come in Sarge. …Sarge? Hello? Anybody? This is Private Simmons, calling any member of the Red Team from Bl—from Outpost 17." His voice goes a little higher and squeakier. "Anyone?"

Static.

"Damn it," Wash mutters.

 

The questions go in circles.

Where's Epsilon. Where's Caboose. What did he do with Epsilon. Where is it. Where did he take it. Why did he leave. Why did the Reds go with him. On and on. Maroon doesn't know. Obvious. Scared shitless. Would've given it up by now.

Epsilon, Epsilon, Epsilon.

Digs into a blank space, a question mark in his head _what happened to Epsilon we don't know we don't know we don't know_

The canyon is full of ghosts. Not like voices. Like layers of everything, translucent and sticky. Keep coming apart like an onion, splitting and splitting. Every memory in layers, out of sync with each other, angles on angles.

He paces circles, circles around the base. Invisible, here-not here. Wash's voice in his ears not Wash's voice. Passing the waterfall, the rushing sound drowns out the noise, a little. Think about stepping under, letting the stream crash over his helmet. White noise heavy, swallowing him whole.

 

"Meta. Meta."

Lifts his head. Stares.

Wash is inches from his visor, which seems weird and almost certainly not real. Sounds wrong, echoey. "I've been calling you for like twenty minutes. What the hell—did you _mute_ me?"

Did do that, it turns out. Don't remember. He unmutes their channel.

Wash comes through loud and clear. Especially loud. "Okay, first of all, fuck you—"

_c'mon Maine there are rules here_

"—second, what the hell is going on with you, third—"

He breaks off, cocking his helmet, staring now.

"Actually, let's just go with that one. Why'd you go invisible?"

Stare.

"You went into camo again. I couldn't find you. Thought you ran off."

Shrug.

"Then your shield went up, and I thought…" Wash shakes his head. "Your vitals went all weird. It happened earlier, too, when you were inside Blue Base. Everything spiked and then went back to normal. What happened?"

Shrug.

Wash's voice drops lower. "I need you for this. You need to hold it together."

Stare.

"Is it your armor? Is it malfunctioning?"

Stare.

Wash grunts irritably, turns on his heel and heads back inside. "Simmons. Make a call to Command." He pauses. Can hear him sigh over the radio. Sounds different. Or, no. Familiar.

More like Wash.

"Tell them to send a medic."

 

The voice on the radio is familiar. Scrambled back and forth in his head, makes him dizzy. _No. Good luck, Red Base. No. Good luck, Red Base._  Not real. Command a ghost town. Wash said. Shakes his head and it comes in louder, _want you to stop the Meta at all costs, want you to stop Agent Washington at all costs,_ and Wash is staring again.

He snarls loud enough to make him look away.

 

Watching from a distance, he keeps trying to figure out if Wash is real.

Wash leans against the wall of the base, pushes off, leans again, taps his foot, holsters his sidearm, draws it again, runs his off-hand over the top of the barrel, sighs, shoulders dropping. Looks at Maroon. Looks down canyon.

Nervous. Twitchy. Like Wash. But more now. Different. Can't just be memory. Wouldn't be like this. Right? The question crawls under his skin, buzzing, humming.

 

"Meta, knock it off. You're wasting your power."

The burn and tingle of the overshield is calming. Activating and deactivating it in pulses. On. Two, three, four. Off. Something to focus on. Not supposed to run the shield alone. Less effective they said, without an AI to modulate the fragmentation layer on impact. Shots might penetrate. Who cares.

The unit crackles more now, but it runs. Nobody shooting at him anyway. On. Off. On. Off.

Wash keeps looking at him. Stop it. Stop staring.

Thinks about going invisible. Probably make Wash start yelling at him again.

Think of the bubble shield, shimmering hardlight dome over his head. Without AI, the dome can destabilize and collapse in on itself. Crush you into a singularity. Not really. What they used to tell the rookies. Definitely will break most of your bones. Seen that one happen during training.

"Meta," Wash says again, insistent, vague worry wavering in his tone. "Easy on those. You're gonna hurt yourself."

Two shields. Two camos. Can't use any of them together without the HUD flashing power warnings. All this shit supposed to be important.

Pretty shitty kit, if you ask him.

Wash has a healing unit. Remember that. Has? Had. Shot in the back. South. Lived.

Dead, alive, real, not real.

Shakes his head. Stop.

Wash had a short-range EMP. Has? No. Right. Took it. Don't have it now. Was a handheld, not run through the armor. Lost somewhere. Maybe back on that ship. Didn't think about it.

He pops the bubble shield up and sits at its center focused on keeping it open at the same diameter, modulating the frequency so it winks insolently at Wash. It doesn't collapse and crush his armor into his bones but he thinks about that and remembers a small sound, like a child laughing.

 

Medic arrives sooner than the radio said. Hours. Think so, anyway.

"Come in Command. Come in Command, this is Medical Officer Dufresne…"

_Frank._

Wash jolts upright from the crate he has finally, within maybe the last hour, stopped pacing long enough to sit and half-lean on, looking equal parts nervous and bored. He's got his sidearm drawn before his boots hit concrete.

Cocks his helmet at Wash.

"Shut up," Wash says automatically, maglocking his sidearm again. "Simmons. Go get him."

"I… what?"

Maroon's been huddled against the wall on his crate, alternately casting long looks out into the canyon and going kind of blank and still in a way that suggests he's watching something on the inside of his helmet. He scrambles when Wash calls his name.

"Get out there. Greet him. Act normal. Bring him up here."

"Um," Maroon squeaks. "Right. Normal. Okay. Uh. Right now? I can go right now?"

" _Yes_ ," Wash says, gesturing impatiently. "Go."

Maroon jumps to his feet and heads for the door, glancing nervously over his shoulder like he expects Wash to shoot him in the back. Not sure he wouldn't.

Wash watches, then nods. "Come on."

 

Someone new down canyon. Purple armor. Climbed up on one of those boulders, turning one way and the other. Takes him a minute to realize the medic's trying to get a signal.

"Command? Come in? Come in, this is Medical Officer Dufresne. I have reached FPS Outpost 17."

The light from Wash's intercept feed blinks on the HUD. Maroon calling now, waving from below.

"Holy cow, Simmons! Is that you?"

"Good," Wash murmurs. "They know each other."

Not new. Know him.

"Oh, hey Doc." Simmons' voice is high, nervous. "Man, I didn't know they'd send you."

"Yeah, we got the radio call and I was the closest…"

Pink body still lying in the grass. Right. Forgot about that one. Dead pink. Alive purple. None of them supposed to be here.

From a distance the colors converge mid-canyon, by the wall. From a distance the voices blend together.

"It's not my fault, Doc. I had to make the call, they made me."

_did what I had to do in time they will understand_

"They needed someone with medical training—"

No.

Not right.

In the doc's hand a medical scanner blinks green

coming to shoot him with something to knock him out of his body again, make all his limbs go wrong—

he can feel it, crawling under his skin

coming for him.

 

"Why did you make me call him if you were just gonna knock him out when he got here?!"

"I _didn't_ knock him out. The Meta did. He… doesn't like doctors."

"He's not a doctor. He's a medic!"

Wash sighs.

 

Shield. Shield. Shield.

The bubble holds his focus, captures his attention in a shiny half-sphere blurring the sun. On and off, blinking over the sky.

"You need to stop trying to use all of them."

Growl. Go away.

"You just don't have the resources anymore."

Growl.

Wash stares him down an exasperated tilt of his helmet. Something like concern. Maybe.

 

Purple's up again. Crouched in the base entryway with Maroon, talking in low voices. Talking about—

"Rumor had it those guys were disbanded. Everyone went to—"

A box. Small enough to touch the wall on both sides. Counting by food bricks through a slot in the wall. Lying on the floor trying to freeze to death.

"Meta killed a bunch of other Freelancers. Took their—"

Ghosts, memories, shadows on the dark. Carried them all inside. Flashes of color. Static under skin. On. Off. On. Off. Never really there anymore.

"…something seems, I don't know, wrong with him…"

Dead man walking, carrying their ghosts.

"Hey Simmons, remember that AI I had for a while? That thing was—"

 

Could he feel it if one was here? Close. Feedback loops, reverberations inside his skull.

Gone or not gone? Real or not real? Nothing feels right not the cavernous space inside his head or the distant sensation of his hands and for a minute, he thinks he could just take Purple apart to see. Pick through his skull to find the pieces. If they're real. If they're not real.

Wash is yelling at him, ordering him back. Push, pull.

Gone.

_out like firecrackers, snap snap snap._

Not real then.

 

"I need a complete scan of my friend here."

Friend.

"And I would recommend you don't use any needles. He _hates_ needles."

Shudder.

"O-okay." Purple looks him up and down, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. "Well, uh, I guess we'll just, um, I mean. How about you and I uh, head inside the base then, big guy, and we'll uh… get this over with?"

Snarl.

"Do it out here," Wash says coldly, "where I can see you."

"I can't let you watch while I examine a patient! That would be a breach of doctor-patient confidentiality!"

"Are you serious?"

"We'll be right inside. You can wait out here. Simmons can keep you company."

"Thanks," Maroon mutters.

Wash hesitates, then shrugs. "Go. Meta… go with him and try not to kill him. He's more useful alive."

Grumble.

The medic laughs nervously. "Right, uh. Right this way."

 

"I'm gonna need you to take off your helmet."

Growl from deep in his throat. Deep in his stomach. Deep in the parts of him gone dark and cold.

No.

The medic takes a deep breath. "Listen. I'll go first, okay? So you know I'm not gonna hurt you." He reaches up and unseals his cheap helmet, lifting it away from his head.

He has a face.

Brown skin and dark eyes, curly black hair. He sets the helmet down slowly on the floor, then stands up again, _looking out at the water through the great spinning blades of the windmill. A nice view_. "Okay. Now you."

No.

"Look… I need to check your pupils. And stuff. I get that your friend out there thinks this scanner is like some magical hands-free diagnostic tool or whatever but it really doesn't give me much more than basic vitals. If I'm going to see what's going on with you, I need the helmet off."

 

Wash isn't looking.

He's fidgeting, first with the radio, then with his rifle, pacing, staring down canyon.

Haven't taken it off except for food, since he got it back. Wash the same.

Always like that, Wash and Maine both. Remember that.

 

He blinks in the dim interior light, where everything looks a little blue. A little strange. No HUD, no vitals or numbers. Just the medic's brown eyes looking up into his, thoughtfully. Brow furrowing.

Keeps the helmet gripped in his hands. Stares the medic down, until Purple swallows and looks away.

"Okay, that's enough. Put it back on."

A smear of sunken eyes and hollow cheeks slides distorted across the gold as he raises the helmet. Turns it around, sets it back over his face. HUD lights up. Lets his breath out.

The medic looks away. Looks down, fiddles with his medical scanner and goes quiet for a minute. Says turn around, he turns around. Says hold still, he does.

"You think your friend's gonna find what he's looking for?"

Quiet growl.

"Or… I don't know, what you're both looking for, I guess?"

Huff.

"Yeah. Well, I'd ask you if you want to talk about it, but."

Snort.

"I'm not really trained as a counselor, anyway. Sorry."

Grunt.

"Yeah." The medic shrugs, switches off his scanner, and reaches for his own helmet. Maine realizes the medic hasn't touched him once since the exam began. "I don't know what happened to you, but. I guess your friend Washington out there does, right?"

Snarl.

"Or—okay," Purple corrects quickly, taking half a step back. "Maybe not, then."

 

Back outside. Sunlight washes over his helmet, bright before the visor dims to adjust.

"I said, we're coming back soon."

Maroon talking to someone on the base radio. Base radio? Not right. Broken.

"Oh—that's great."

"Ask him when," Wash says in a low voice. Magnum pointed casually at Maroon's head.

"When do you think that'll be… exactly?"

"Hard to say, Simmons. We'll let you know."

"Okay, Sarge, that… sounds good."

"Over and out."

"Okay, good." Wash gestures with his pistol. "Now get back over there."

Maroon scampers back up against the wall, next to Purple.

"Doc. What did you find out in your scan?"

Grumbles to himself, feeling the rumble and ache in his throat. Familiar. Wanders to the edge of the base platform, swings the Brute shot into his hands. Looks up canyon. There's some kind of transporter thing at the edge of the base deck, a wavering field of blue energy. Teleporter? No. Remember from training. Called them _man-cannons._ Great trick to play on the new recruits. Remember _you take upper level Big Fella just don't step in the blue thing unless you want to go for a ride._ Remember _just cut the power to the whole base, we have to get the COMs offline, hurry_ _—_

"Uh, it's hard to say. He's added so much non-standard equipment to his armor I can't really get a good reading on him."

Snarls and looks over his shoulder. Wash turns to look at the same moment. Stares back for a second. Looks away first.

"I didn't want you to run an intelligence report on him, I wanted a medical one." Wash is rocking his weight from one foot to the other. Nervous.

"His power systems are stressed from trying to maintain it all. Is he missing some component that controls all this, or—"

"Physically," Wash snaps, the patience gone from his voice all at once. "Is he fine, physically?"

Purple shrugs uncomfortably. "Yeah, I guess."

"Good. Next time, answer the question I ask. I'm watching you two. Give me any trouble, and you're dead."

Looks back down canyon. Nothing to see. Empty Red Base. Dead Reds. Agitation humming under his skin. Thinking of _a bunk torn off the wall, dark shadows on the concrete floor._

Wash has moved next to him. Sighs. Been doing that a lot.

"You heard what Doc said. The equipment's straining your power sources. You shouldn't be using it unless you need to. …Meta? Are you listening to me?"

Hears a rumble, somewhere, like a Warthog a long way off. Maybe nothing. Maybe not real.

 

"Oh Simmons… Simmons, where are you? Yoo-hoo!"

Someone yelling. On the open channel and the voice amp. Doubles the sound in his ears, tinny and headachey.

"Looks like just one of them," Wash murmurs, scouting through his riflescope. "I don't know if he has it. I can't see from this far."

Nods down canyon, looks at Wash. Could go down in camo, flank, drive him back to Blue Base. But Wash shakes his head.

"No. I'll go. You stay here, guard these two. If he gives me any trouble, just kill the prisoners and come help me."

Okay.

Maroon and Purple, sitting on the base deck with their backs to the wall, helmets lolling boredly, snap to attention and scramble to their feet.

Could kill them anyway. Not doing them much good. Wash would probably get mad, though. Said not to unless there's trouble.

He listens for trouble.

But everything's trouble here.

 

The prisoners are muttering to each other. They can't open a private channel with Wash's intercept up, but they can talk low. Wash mutters to himself too, moving away. Then talking to the Red. And somewhere, again, that rumbling sound.

Louder. Not a memory. Real. Sound of a Warthog, and a grinding crash down canyon.

Maroon and Purple back up against the wall. Hear it too. Down the western wall something explodes, smoke rising into the blue sky, Wash yelling over the radio. Real. Trouble.

Brute shot in his hands, swinging back, Purple waving the medical scanner frantically—

a flash of green

and a jolt of electricity through his suit so sharp it feels like a burn over his whole chest, a bolt throwing him back over the base deck, weapon slipping from his hands. Muscles scream _go_ and he's rolling to his feet and aiming for a blow but everything races to blinding, flickering speed, colors flashing in front of his eyes and voices a meaningless shriek in his ears and everything's too sharp and too bright and too loud and his fist connects with the medic's helmet and his force amps flash power warnings and the HUD blinks in and out and red lines flash WARNING CRITICAL SYSTEM OVERLOAD WARNING TEMPORAL DISTORTION UNIT DISABLED WARNING HARDWARE NOT RECOGNIZED WARNING CHARON INDUSTRIES IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR INJURIES SUSTAINED DUE TO MISUSE OF THIS PIECE OF DEFENSIVE TECHNOLOGY PLEASE CONSULT OWNER'S MANUAL FOR PROPER MAINTENANCE INSTRUCTION WOULD YOU LIKE TO RUN THE TUTORIAL PROGRAM

screaming. Can't scream.

Hands clawing at helmet, trying to mute the shrieking in his ears but it's not the radio.

_Trouble._

Reaching, flailing for the weapon, where is it

above his head, blade embedded in the wall

yanks it free and it swings down heavy.

 

Black craters erupt in the concrete under bursts of orange fire, scattering shrapnel. Close shots, rattling off armor, sizzling against the fragmentation layer—must have activated the overshield. Don't remember doing that. Sparking, crackling in his ears. The weight and kickback in his hands anchors him to the ground. To his own weight.

But Maroon is gone, and there's—

the Warthog. Definitely real.

He turns, right hand flexing on the firing wheel, punching shot after shot as the hog circles, growls, closing in and then tearing off down canyon, the downshift in pitch still screaming in his ears.

The blue flame of the transporter at the edge of the base deck flickers

_I can do it I'm not scared_

and his stomach drops away with the green turf as he vault into the blue sky and then that Warthog rushes up beneath his feet.

 

It's a pretty good landing. Dead on the hood with both feet, steel buckling, knees bending on instinct to take the impact. Armor takes most of it anyway. Not bad. The hog pitches, nose crushed into the turf, windshield shattering and spraying reinforced glass in pellets over his helmet and shoulder. Back end of the hog forced up in the air. Reds flying overhead. Reds? More than one. Alive.

He rolls backward as the vehicle flips, doing a full rotation before it comes down again. Not to rest for long. Got a fresh clip into the Brute shot, cranks the fire wheel, pushing it to max rate of fire, battering the hog, spinning and burning and Maroon still clinging to the bumper, shrieking.

The hog hits a boulder, finally halting its wild trajectory, one tire ripped off and rolling away over bumpy ground. Flames roar from the busted chain gun, and the smell of burning coolant and gunsmoke bleeds hard through his air filters. The Reds are staggering to their feet nearby. That stray wheel bounces off the canyon wall, comes rolling back, bumps over the orange one sprawled in the grass.

Hand on the fire wheel—

Then a new voice.

 

Got a head full of ghosts and memories and layers coming apart in pieces but not voices out of nowhere. Out of nothing. Out of a floating metal ball glowing with a soft blue light.

Don't think that's supposed to happen.

Don't think that's right. Maybe not real. Maybe

_breathless terror waking him from a sound sleep. Wash's sidearm in his hand, glinting blue, Maine's big hand wresting it from beneath his jaw before the shot that never came. Before the death screamed out but never realized._

panic clawing its way up his chest, cold now and blue.

 

The silver ball moves fast.

The body of Agent Maine isn't graceful. Isn't fast. Even with the mods, _the speed mod missing, the split second decision for the sure thing_. The ball sails over green and rock and wet stream splashing under his feet. It sails toward Blue Base. Toward Wash. No. Where is Wash? Somewhere—

The roar of the waterfall draws closer, running to the canyon's end, running at full tilt, swiping the air with both hands, but it keeps dodging, diving out of their way—

he pauses in the doorway of Blue Base, _calling to someone._

Calling from _behind closed doors and encrypted locks and security clearance gave them Wash no_

Wash.

Panic in his stomach, churning fear and guilt—

snarling into the radio, damn it, answer—

"Meta! What's going on, where are you?"

Relief slams into him with an almost crushing weight, at the same moment he realizes the ball is gone.

"I'm heading for the wall. _Hurry._ " Wash is out of a breath and there's a pinch of pain in his voice. Wounded, but okay. Alive. Talking. "The Reds are getting away, they've got Epsilon, we have to stop them—"

 

He makes it to the wall, just in time to see it cave in.

Wash has run to his side, and if he's wounded it doesn't show in his pace. He's yelling over the radio, "Get them, Meta, _get_ them—"

( _Sic 'em,_ bad feeling, bad thing, no)

The hole in the wall glows, red and unreal, and the broken section of wall (when did that happen) rumbles and collapses on itself in a cloud of acrid smoke and concrete dust, the smell searing into his lungs. Air filters aren't doing shit right now. Probably didn't get any kind of a tune-up while he was in the box.

Epsilon. In a steel ball floating. Blue. Light. Doesn't make sense. Let it get away. Failed Wash. How? All of it wrong and everything heavy.

He lets out a miserable growl. Only now feeling the painful strain in his shoulder as the adrenaline starts to die down and he swings the weapon onto his back.

Wash is looking at him now.

He sighs heavily, holstering his own rifle and turning from the wall.

"Don't worry," he says, almost gently. "We'll find them again."

Snarls at the collapsed wall. Feel so heavy, like his own head's going to cave in.

 

Purple doesn't know anything. Wouldn't. Doesn't even belong here. Pretty sure Wash just doesn't have any better ideas.

Medic's wedged ass-first into the wall of Blue Base on the upper level. Think maybe he did that. Maybe remember. Green light, everything slow and then fast and then punching him in the face. It's all a little vague and blurry and hot when he thinks about it. Kind of feels like he's overheating all over again. Itching under his skin.

"Get him out of there," Wash groans. "I can't talk to him like this."

Purple is not coming out of the base wall. Chips and chunks of it flake off when he wedges his big fingers in and tries to pry him out. It's not really concrete. Not like the wall down the east side of the canyon. Some kind of cheap building compound, the injection-molded shit that comes in pre-cut pieces and gets slapped together on-site. Used for short-term shelters on the front lines, cheap housing on shitty outer colonies. It's kind of melted around the medic. Fused right to the plating of his cheap armor.

"Try lower," Wash says, comfortably bossy. In a better mood now for some reason. "Near the center of gravity."

Tugs at the breastplate. Puts his force amps into it until the medic whines, but he stays put.

"Try the codpiece."

Indignant snarl.

"Oh, come on! We're all adults here."

Grumble.

 

The busted hog is still smoking by the boulder, but the flames have died. It wobbles on three wheels, still smelling of burning metal and gunpowder. Good enough.

The winch on the front is still more or less intact, cable unspooling as he pulls. Once it gets rolling, he pitches the heavy hook Wash's direction.

Wash catches on pretty quick.

Missing tire means a lot of lost traction, and the other front wheel is loose and the whole axle's threatening to fall off. A nearby jut of rock gives it something to grip as he puts the thing in neutral.

"Okay," Wash calls over the radio. "Give it a crank."

The M12 Force Application Vehicle weighs around three metric tons. Can go up to 125 kilometers per hour. 463 horsepower. Three-speed electronic transmission. Mag buffer suspension. That's all before taking a half dozen grenades. And catching fire. And losing a wheel and a half.

"More power! Come on, give it some gas."

The hog growls, grinding on the rock as the taut line tries to drag it forward. The damaged frame's groaning already, and the winch creaks and whines in protest.

Sounds about how he feels with this whole mission.

"Almost! Just a little more!"

Something gives, suddenly, with a distant cracking sound from the base and hog lurches back on its wheels with the sudden slack.

"Well," Wash says grumpily. "That's just great."

 

Think of dropping into this valley from space. That's how it feels. Coming from far away. Swinging from an impossible distance, trying to hit the precise spot.  
  
Hit him again, Wash says.

Medic doesn't know anything. And it's getting sort of… empty again. Distant. Felt better fighting. Now it feels like he's still arcing through the air on blue, stomach dropping, falling out of his skin and even the impact of fist and gel and titanium composite plate every time Wash says "hit him" isn't bringing it back.

Hit him again.

Hit him again.

Hit him again.

The medic's cries start to bleed into his muscles, feel like his own. Wish he could sleep.

Could just shoot him and pulling his logs, Wash says. Fine. Better. Why not just do that from the beginning then. Why all this bullshit.

Sand, the medic says. Something about sand.

 

Wash lets up. Heads back inside the base, leaving the medic in his chunk of wall propped up in the grass. "Hey guys? Uh. Guys? Can I get like, a snack or something? Agent Washington? …Wash?"

Round back of the base, water noise fills his ears, white where it's pounded to froth on the rocks. Not much better. Something. Inside, Wash scrolls around their linked HUD map, marking points, drawing travel routes, lines over land and water. Making a plan. Muttering over the radio like there's someone still listening.

 

**Η**

_Wait_ _—_

 

Wash gives him the wheel on the drive south and takes shotgun instead. He flips through data on his HUD and stares moodily out at scenery.

The slab of wall propped up in the back of the hog and lashed to the chain gun with some spare cable won't stop talking.

He mutes him, and listens to Wash mutter to himself instead.

 

The mountains flatten out into a plane of frozen tundra as they bear southeast from the lake. Hours south, the ground softens beneath their wheels and turned to mud. Splattering the sides of the vehicle, speckling the white of his armor. Wetlands, thickening with tall grass and hanging trees and strange birds and the buzz of insects. Squawks and chirps and a persistent hum that seems to crawl inside his helmet and reverberate inside his skull. Wash plots the course. He follows.

They make a stop further south, where the swamp recedes and the ground firms up. Wash digs through their provisions for something to eat, tosses a protein shake in Maine's direction and his hand shoots up to catch it. Automatic.

Wash's helmet comes off. His eyes fix on Maine for a moment. Shadows under his eyes, dark hair flattened down. Stares at him until he looks away. Rumbles, uneasy.

Don't want to take the helmet off. Hollowness in the stomach argues.

Reluctantly he pops the seal. Staying in the hog, though. Purple doesn't get to see his face again.

He shakes the can, end over end, and the whole landscape tilts one way and then the other and he _has his elbows on the table, Wash making a face at him as he pops the tab, tossing a straw in his direction. No telling where those cans have been he says. Chocolate snakes up the red spiral, meeting his tongue._

Metal's warm against his mouth. Tastes bad. He strips a glove off and rubs his thumb over the metal edge, wiping it clean. Back and forth, back and forth, sharp edge against the calloused pad of his thumb.

"Gonna cut yourself," Wash says, almost absently.

Maine looks up.

Wash is eyeing him from the passenger seat, brow furrowing a little. He has a protein bar half-unwrapped in one hand, unfolding it carefully down the side as he eats. Chewing slowly. Deliberately. Leaning back in the seat almost like he's relaxed, though there's a tension in his shoulders and neck, says he's not. Not really. Catches his eye. Maine's eye. For a long moment they just stare at each other.

He pulls the tab off the can and flicks it at Wash, who swats it out of the air and gives him a look.

"You're an asshole," Wash says dryly. "You know that, right?"

Shrug.

"Yeah. That's what I thought."

 

Sand is the fucking worst.

It's bad even before they arrive, lumpy and loose under the hog's wheels, traction going to hell, bumping and rolling and sinking and kicking up a spray of grainy dust. Can feel it grinding in the armor joints, coating the exposed parts of the undersuit, dulling the black.

It's better being out of the canyon at least. Trying to stay grounded with the rumble of the vehicle over the ground, trying to ignore what keeps needling like a vague pain at the base of his skull. All the phantom aches in Maine's body, old wounds not his.

Staring into the bleary monochrome distance, trying to pick out if that smudge of gray on the horizon is real or some trick of the heat. No. Real.

Deep in the desert. Been here before.

 

"Hey," Wash says, the first word he's spoken in hours. "You seeing that?"

No.

"Look at your Recovery panel. Something just popped up. It's an old signal." Wash frowns. "Should've gotten _that_ sooner. Something must've been blocking it."

Right. Dust-colored spires towering overhead, _might be jammers._ Remember that.

"Only Level 2… huh. Guess we should check it out anyway."

Grunts. Leans on the accelerator.

Level 2. Means something. Can't remember.

 

Hole in the ground. Sand in his gloves. Wash snapping, annoyed. Irritable with the heat. With everything. With what's under the sand. Remember this, _hunting for hours through crisscrossing corridors, empty, nothing here_.

Hate the feeling of sand on his gloves. Hate the feeling of his hands buried in it. Flings as much of it in Wash's general direction as possible. Wash is too busy telling Purple to shut up. Still got the medic muted. Good decision.

Fingers strike something in the ground and tug it loose, the sand sliding away in streams and he finds his thumbs rubbing two dulled gold eyeholes clear.

_Hair falling over one eye, a wry smile, a cool damp hand on the back of his head but don't remember_ _—_

_"Corrupted_ _—I don't understand it, I—" but don't remember—_

_Dropping her tray beside Wash, stirring cinnamon into her oatmeal, or crouched behind a cover block with Wash, giving cover fire while he reloads, a two-on-two training match,_

_the gold eyes of her helmet, how they looked sneaky or sad depending on how she tilted her head._

_Agent Connecticut, CT, Connie, a woman named_ _—_

don't know her name. Don't remember being her. Like Wash.

"Don't bother," Wash is saying. An odd tone to his voice. "She didn't get an AI, remember?"

Remember. Don't remember. Remember something lost. Something that would have been.

Wash is talking about scavenging, about equipment, but when he digs into the sand again there's nothing. No body. Helmet only. Missing. Just sand. Empty helmet. Empty space.

Missing.

 

There are more voices.

Takes a minute to realize they aren't talking in a language he could understand, even if he was paying attention. Not human. _They were here, a Banshee flier half-buried in the sand, the purple weathered away but now there's no one, nothing_ _—_ Has his weapon off his back, without thinking. There's a cluster of them. Elites. At a distance, not charging but watching. Never saw them on HUD. Right. Radar jammed.

"What the _hell_ is going on at this outpost," Wash mutters. "First CT, and now Covies? There was no intel—"

He grumbles for a few minutes, eyeing the aliens through his scope, then stops mid-sentence, then—

"You think you can _talk_ to them?"

Out of sheer curiosity, he unmutes the medic.

"Yeah, why not? You know a little of the old diplomacy? After all, aren't some of them working with us now?"

"In a manner of speaking," Wash says reluctantly.

"Better than killing each other, right?"

"That's debatable," Wash mutters.

"Aw, c'mon! Just let me try."

"Be my guest," Wash says dryly. "Just walk right over there."

"Oh, come on!"

Wash shakes his head. "Come on, Meta. I've got an idea. Look, you aim for his left side—right at the edge of the panel, don't actually hit him, and I'll aim for the right—"

"Um," the medic squeaks. "I don't think I like this plan anymore."

 

 _"Ow_ ,'' the medic whimpers.

Still bits and chunks of gray polycrete stuck in the joints of his armor, bits of it chipping away as he moves, but the bulk of the wall panel's lying in pieces in the sand, or blown to dust.

"Doc," Wash says, "how do you feel?"

The medic rolls his shoulders, flinches. "Okay, I guess, all things considered. Hey, does anybody know where we could find a good medic?"

Wash sighs. "I don't get paid enough for this."

"Jeez," the medic says, "tough room."

Wash stalks away sulkily. Maine looks at him, then to Purple, and shrugs.

 

Wash quits sulking long enough to dig out some water rations. Tosses the medic a bottle and he chugs it too fast. Looks a little green afterward, but keeps it down.

"All right," Purple says nervously, helmeting back up and shaking out his limbs like he's trying to make sure they still work. "I'm gonna go do this, then."

Wash paces restlessly in the sand as the medic trots off to talk to the aliens. Can hear over COMs, and he says a few words here and there but mostly gesture. Seems good at talking with his hands. Something calming about it, watching his hands move in the ripples of heat.

The vastness of desert feels yawning and hot and empty. Gonna cook under the beating sun. Melt right out of his body. The grimy black-gloved hands are starting to feel like somebody else's again and the waver in the air above the glistening sand feels like it's crawling inside his head.

_Nothing here. Dead end._

He climbs into the driver's side of the Warthog, and starts the engine just to feel the rumble and vibration, trying to feel real again. Sit there steeping in it until Wash grumps at him for wasting fuel.

Medic is waving them over now.

 

"Report," Wash says tersely.

"Hey, so these guys say your AI thing came through here, maybe? With the Red guys? At least, I'm pretty sure—"

"You're _pretty sure?"_

"No, I'm sure, I'm sure, they came through here, a bunch of humans and a not-human. That's what they said."

"A not-human."

"Yeah!"

"But what does that _mean?"_

Purple shrugs. "Well, what else _would_ it mean?"

"I don't like it," Wash says flatly.

"Look, I talked to them…"

They argue. Tune them out, shifting with unease in the noise and heat.

 

Plan fails. Hingeheads die with angry shrieks and purple blood spills on the sand. Stink of it rises fast in the heat. Remember that from before. From a long time ago.

He's drenched in sweat when they cease fire. Feel heavy and swampy. Undersuit definitely isn't working right.

Wash is grumpy. Questioning the medic again. Wonder if his armor's in as bad shape.

Thinking about getting inside the temple. Into the shade. God, would be nice to strip down but he can't in front of the doc. Would be nice to be underwater. Cold. Canyon was bad but the cold up north was better, crisp thin air in the mountains. Better to breathe.

Takes a step in the direction of the structure. Too slow. Wash sees.

"Meta, you search the temple. See if you can find anything useful for us. Any clues where Epsilon went."

Snarl.

"Don't start with me," Wash snaps. The anger in his voice cuts somewhere. Makes him feel tired.

 

Cooler inside, and dark. A moment of what feels like near pitch black before the visor adjusts. Almost enough to think about taking off the helmet, but no. Air still stale and hot and musty in here.

The interior is all criss-crossing corridors. Easy to get lost. Partially mapped in the HUD, though—right.

Been here before. Nothing here. Remember that.

He trudges about halfway down the first narrow corridor before kicking something half-lodged in the sand. Looks down. The stone walls press in close on either side. Not much wider than the span of his shoulder. Makes his chest feel tight.

There's a thing in the sand. He kicks it loose.

Remembers—

 

 _Hello, and welcome to the Freelancer Recovery Force Tutorial Program. In this course, you will learn your duties as a trusted Recovery Agent of Project Freelancer, to ensure the safety and security of all military property in a harsh and violent galaxy_ _…_

_As a Recovery Agent, you may find it necessary to recover a rogue artificial intelligence unit. Some AI possess an automatic data transfer function, allowing them to move freely from host to host. But never fear! With these modifications to a standard AI storage device, you can contain a rogue unit with the press of a button. Patented firewall technology ensures the security of the AI program within this modified capture unit, and will allow you transport it safely back to_ _—_

 

_a black box an agony of nothing a senseless void of_

null

null

null

The tiny digital readout on the side of the unit blinks, an indignant cursor.

No. No. No.

EXTERNAL DEVICE DETECTED. WIRELESS CONNECTION ESTABLISHED. NO DATA FOUND. WOULD YOU LIKE TO TRANSFER—

No no no transfer not going inside another box

breathing too fast

wait. Breathing. Have a body. Can't go inside a box. Not this one, anyway.

Have a body. Have hands. His.

NO DATA FOUND

Empty.

Something was here. _But they're not here now._

What Wash wants. What the ghosts wanted. _Epsilon._

Not here now.

 _Circles and circles, north south east west spin the compass points to find what you're looking for and it's never there. Forty years in the desert_ or however it goes. It's never there. Wash will find out—

Wash. Calling from outside, impatient and a growl tears from his throat like it's trying to tear him apart from the inside.

"What did you find, Meta?"

He fires a grenade at the entrance. Go away.

"Hey! Watch it! Meta, come _out_ here. Now!"

Can't. Can't do this. All the layers coming apart again, wavering in the heat and sweat and this _thing_ in his hands, empty and not empty and he has to escape before they put him back in he has to _find him_ before it's too late he has to help Wash he has to keep going he has to die and which one is real, one two three four five six seven eight nine and more and more all the angles in his head, everyone he remembers being and can't stop remembering.

Was Maine before. He knows that. But can't stop remembering. Layers and layers dumped in this stupid skull and what is he supposed to be now. With all this shit left behind.

Don't know. Don't know. Can't do it.

_"Please."_

NO DATA FOUND.

"Listen, Meta, whatever you found, we can deal with it, I promise. Just come out here and show me what it is—"

He exhales hard and hurls the unit at the entrance as hard as he can.

A yelp and then a brief silence.

"…Oh."

 

He growls coming out into the sun, and the overshield fires off in a glitch of static. Would keep it up if it did anything about the heat. Armor sparks and the HUD flashes warnings as he tries to shut it off, growling.

It's empty, Wash is saying, but he knows that. Knew it all along. Knew there was nothing here. Always a dead end.

The storage unit hums. A vague pulsing sound, like a drive spinning. Full of noise. Doesn't sound like it should be empty. Just spinning, spinning, rumbling meaninglessly in the sand.

"Clearly they transferred Epsilon into that floating thing we saw," Wash says.

Medic cocks his head at Wash. "You saw a floating thing?"

"Yes, like a metal eye. It shot a laser at us."

The doc is skeptical.

"Meta saw it too!"

He grumbles noncommittally.

"Oh, yes you did! Don't even try that!"

Don't know what the fuck he saw anymore. In the oppressive heat and the layers splitting and sliding out of sync in his head the memory seems unreal and stupid. Maybe not real. Maybe Wash isn't real either.

"Wash, do you see the floating eyeball, now?"

Snicker. Wash's helmet tilts down in a glare.

 

WOULD YOU LIKE TO TRANSFER FILES?

Y

He drums his fingers against the casing of the unit as the capture software uploads, then the firewall. On his knees in the sand, sitting back to watch the upload bar fill. 18%. 25%. 32%.

The unit hums louder as the auto-install runs. Bunch of warnings scroll in front of his eyes. ACTIVATING THIS SOFTWARE WITHIN UPLINK PROXIMITY TO ANY UNSC SMART AI UNIT WILL INITIATE FORCED DATA TRANSFER. INTERRUPTION OF TRANSFER MAY RESULT IN CATASTROPHIC DATA LOSS OR FILE CORRUPTION. ANY AI UNIT CAPTURED WITHIN THIS DEVICE WILL NOT BE TRANSFERABLE TO ANOTHER DEVICE WITHOUT A HARDLINE CONNECTION. THIS IS A LAST RESORT MEASURE. ASTYK TECHNOLOGIES AND ITS PARENT COMPANY CHARON INDUSTRIES WILL NOT BE LIABLE FOR ANY DATA LOSS THAT MAY OCCUR DUE TO FAULTY HARDWARE OR MISUSE OF THIS SOFTWARE PROGRAM. FOR ADDITIONAL INFORMATION, PLEASE RUN THE TUTORIAL PROGRAM.

Wash and the Doc bicker at his back while he works. He hears Wash say loudly, "I'm not crazy."

Can't say the same.

Can't say about Wash either.

 

The unit blinks a few times when he's done. The lights on the side are glowing red now instead of blue, and the casing feels hot. He thinks. Hard to tell. Too hot already.

Doc asking more questions. Wash talking.

"I just have to deliver Epsilon to the Chairman. I don't have to guarantee what condition I deliver him in."

Chairman. Who?

"He's just evidence, anyway."

Evidence.

Rumbles low in his throat, watching Wash.

Grabs the unit when Wash tells him to. Moves away, wanders toward the Warthog waiting in the sand.

 

Get the unit near Epsilon. It'll pull him in. Could short out after that, Wash says, for all he cares.

In spite of the heat, a shiver rolls down his spine.

He tosses the unit in the hog and heads back toward Wash. The doc's moving away from him, shaking his head.

He cocks his helmet at Wash.

"Him? Eh." Wash shrugs. "He's always whining about something." He switches to their private channel. "Hey, Meta. Is there any way we could track the Reds by trying to pick up a trail, like a uh, heat signature or something?"

He growls. Heat signature. They're in the fucking desert.

"Yes," Wash says, sighing. "I know we're in the desert."

Actually, though.

 

Remember something. The one who saw things. Saw ahead where the rest couldn't. Made something. An algorithm for vehicle emissions. It's still in here. Somewhere. Closes his eyes, the gold thread of her only a shadow.

He pings the HUD for functions… heat signatures? Emissions? Something?

There it is. Atmospheric readings. A function piggybacked off of that. Coded into the HUD. Left behind.

He walks. Wash follows behind.

"That's—great. You managed to pick up a trail? Already?"

He rumbles. Hold on. Looking. Yeah. There's something. It's faint, but it's there.

"I want credit for the idea," says the medic.

Rumbles. Not yours. Not Maine's either.

 

They stalk back to the hog. Wash and the doc trade insults. Don't care. Just want to get out of the fucking desert. Out of the heat and sweat and the sinking feeling that no matter what they do it's the wrong thing. Going to lose the important thing. One way or another. Always do.

Wash and Epsilon. Wash or Epsilon. Wash. Epsilon. Back and forth. Twisting, churning unease in his stomach.

 

Wash is in a mood. Grumpy. Wonder what it was like for him in prison. If they put him in a steel box and left him to rot inside his own head. Nothing to do but lie on the floor and try to freeze the ghosts out. Wonder if Wash wanted to die, or tried to.

_"Did something about my actions indicate I expect to survive?"_

Right. Already tried. Failed. Like him. What now? Try to live?

Wash looks at him and he's angry. Angry at him. For something. Living? Shooting him?

Not being Maine?

Didn't want to kill him. Was a friend. Maine's friend. Wanted to kill him, too. Hated him. Always causing problems, _thorn in our side._ Remember that too. Didn't want to hurt anyone. Didn't like it when people died. Remember that. Remember all of it at once.

So much rattling around.

Are you the box or what's inside it. The ghosts or the body of the dead man they live in, and if Maine's dead then who's the box, what is it. What do you call it. Wash calls it _Meta. Still that then._

But not the same.

Wash looks at him and his shoulders slump and he looks away and maybe it's just the heat and he's tired. Wash is tired. They've only been down a couple days. Feels like longer. Wash is already years tired. Got that look. His words don't come fast anymore. Feel heavier. Gray. Old.

When did he get so old?

Went through the doors and never came out. Came back years later. Came back different. Came back wrong. Gave them Wash. Maine's fault. So Maine owes him. Whether he's Maine or not, Maine's body carries the debt. The ghosts carry the debt. Inherited. Theirs now.

Can't make it up to him, though. No going back. No taking back the blade between the ribs, the hand around the throat. The bullet in the upper chest. No taking back any of it. No walking back out of the snow, even here. Just carry it like dead weight.

Not sure he can be Maine. Too many memories, too many angles. Too many ghosts in here.

But Maine has memories from before. Get inside those, maybe. No ghosts down there.

 

_Elites have better vision in the dark. Move faster. Bigger, taller. Built for fighting, evolved to it in a way humans aren't, with their fragile bones and bad joints and backward knees and balloon skulls. Too easy to cave that brainpan in. Just like the UNSC ships with their bridges sitting exposed on top. Covies keep theirs hidden, in the guts of the ship, well-defended. Humans are stubborn. Good and bad._

_Sometimes stubborn keeps you alive._

_Stubborn keeps him moving here, even with his armor breached and a lot of blood spilling out of his side. Not a Sangheili energy sword_ — _at least those cauterize, though usually they slice you right in two so it doesn't matter. Not plasma burns. Good old friendly fire. Some fucknut in his own unit spraying bullets. Kovalenko's the tank though. Can take a few hits. Even through the vulnerable midsection. Hurts, bleeds. Don't think it got anything vital though. Still breathing, pained breaths that pull at his side. Left the last of his biofoam in the chest of their demo man, took two to the right lung. Still breathing in the left, hopefully. Left him slumped in cover behind the hog, heart still beating._

_Now, battering his way through Grunts, bullets for some, butt of his rifle when they get close._

 

There's Elite blood and viscera on his hands. Sticky. Not fresh. All dark purple and congealed. Messy chunks and globs. Smeared all over the Brute shot too. Don't remember getting that. Took it off a downed Brute, must be.

…No.

It's broad daylight in the desert, and it's fucking hot.

He's breathing heavy, drenched in sweat. Holds the weapon with one hand, grasps at his side, but there's no blood. No human blood. Suit not breached. Just dirty. Under it, his skin feels gross. Want to tear it off. Crawl out of it.

The alien at his feet doesn't have much of his skin left.

Looks up. Wash and the doc talking. Can't hear. Don't have them muted. Private channel.

Wash is fucking talking to the medic on a private channel.

Both of them staring at him. Watching him hack an alien corpse to pieces.

He swings the Brute shot onto his back, snarling.

Then something starts screaming in his ears.

 

Takes his eyes a minute to focus back on the HUD.

He's staggering uphill to Wash with nothing in mind but to growl at him until he stops talking, until he stops talking to the doc on a fucking private COM, fucking asshole. Get him to stop whatever's fucking beeping. Like he needs more noise.

But Wash is already highlighting a point on their shared HUD map, motioning with fresh urgency as he makes for the Warthog. "I'm getting it too. I should have known he might end up there. It's a recovery beacon. It's him. It's Epsilon."

 

**Σ**

_Not like this._

 

It gets better, slowly, as they rumble north, sand becoming hard stubbled ground again. The aching, throbbing pulse of the heat up from the ground has finally receded and though the inside of his suit still feels clammy and gross, it's a relief to not be actively sweating. He opens the seal where his helmet meets the high collar of the undersuit. Tugs the collar away from his skin. Helps a little.

Wash has a use for the doc now. Lets him drive. Stupid. Could drive them right off a cliff. Or just sabotage the engine on a rest stop. All things he would do.

Things he would do. Right. Couldn't even get himself off the floor. Locked in a steel box. Didn't even try to get out.

Feel the hissing spitting hatred rise out of memory. _Pathetic. Disgusting. Useless piece of shit. Didn't even try._

He's in the gunner, Wash has shotgun. Doesn't say much. Suppose he must be keeping an eye on Doc's driving, watching the HUD map, but he doesn't seem to be doing much directing. Turns away after a while, rests his jaw on the heel of his hand, his posture sleepy.

Eyeing them both to be sure they aren't looking, he tugs his helmet off.

It's not so dusty now. Just wind in his face as they move. He unseals his gloves and takes them off too, stuffing them inside the helmet and tucking it down against the base of the machine gun.

Hands look mostly the same. Some marks he doesn't remember. They don't even feel like somebody else's when he moves his fingers and watches them move. His for right now. In his own skin for right now.

Whose skin? Maine's?

He presses both hands to his face, callouses scraping over a few days of stubble. Rubs the hollows under his eyes, under his cheekbones, drags thumbs under his jawline. Rubs fingertips over his forehead, up to the hairline and further back, over his scratchy scalp.

He has his helmet back on before Wash looks back—idly, over his shoulder, as if to make sure he's still there. When their gazes meet, Wash looks away.

 

Doc takes a different route, keeping close to the lake, out of the soggiest of the wetlands. Long as they keep following the compass point north, Wash doesn't seem to care.

Maybe it just doesn't occur to the doc to try and escape anymore. Maybe knows it wouldn't do any good.

(Maine's the one who gave up. Gave up and died and failed everyone who mattered. Doesn't matter they're still his hands. Just a sack of meat now. Dead man walking.)

The temperature drops, hour by hour. Faint pale peaks appear on the horizon.

 

He seals his armor back up when they see snow.

The power readings are better. Leveling out, now that they aren't trying to compensate for the unbearable heat. His skin starts to feel almost _dry_ again, the underlayer picking up its slack and wicking the moisture away. Even breathing feels easier.

Elevation's rising, too, and the air thins.

Should feel better. But something's started needling in the back of his mind. Something wrong. Can't pull it out of the static, see it for what it is. But it's growing as they rumble north, further and further.

 

He blinks as the hog goes over a bump. Might have nodded off. If he dreamed he can't remember. For a few minutes he doesn't remember much, his mind a snow haze like static on a screen.

Not just in his mind. There's snow coming down for real, flakes sticking to his visor each for a brief crystal second before they melt into tiny water droplets beading on the surface.

Wash is alert now, rifle in hand, as they rumble through rocky passes and narrow switchbacks, the big tires kicking up snow.

 

It's coming down heavy by the time they get there. Outside temp's reading -24C not counting windchill. Where the peaks part, some great black structure juts out of the snow, half buried in ice.

What's started in the pit of his stomach, something half-buried and _wrong_ , has stirred up and grown into a gnawing hole, slowly hollowing itself a place between his ribs, and now as they rumble through the snow high in the hills, it's tearing at him, trying to claw its way out of his chest.

Should've seen it on the map, should've realized where they were heading, _stupid,_ and he didn't, he's only getting it now.

 

"There he is," Wash calls, and Doc puts on the brakes.

A blue soldier in the snow. _Dead Blues, one two three four five_ but no just one. Facedown in the snow, lying still.

Seen this before.

He's breathing too fast. His chest is going to cave in.

"Something doesn't seem right here," Wash says. "Stop the car."

Doc pulls them to a halt. "Stop?" he says uneasily.

"I don't like this," Wash mutters, sighting out the area through his scope. "How did he get hurt? Why isn't anyone helping him?"

Blue. _Blue soldier in the tower, peering through the scope of a_ _—_

"You're right. This is a trap." Wash follows his gaze before Meta realizes he's looking. "Those walls there, perfect for a sniper."

Not walls.

"We walk in to where he's hurt and suddenly, we're boxed in, nowhere to go."

Boxed, box, back in the box.

"You think the Reds are trying to ambush us?"

Wash laughs harshly. "The _Reds?_ No. This is an actual military tactic. We drilled it all the time in training. No, whoever set this up is a Freelancer."

Wrong. None of them left.

"Yeah, but…" Doc cocks his helmet, "if a Freelancer set this up, wouldn't they know that you guys were Freelancers, and that you would recognize this as soon as you saw it?"

_No one left._

"What?" Wash says. "No…"

_No._

"You're overthinking it." But there's doubt creeping into his voice.

Yellow light.

_Explosives. Buried_ _—_

"That's just—"

Yellow lights in a circle. Blink. Blink. Blink.

"Oh, son of a _bitch_ _—"_

Doc sighs, curling forward into a brace position with a certain amount of resignation. "Told you so."

 

The dive off the gunner seat is pure instinct, tucking and rolling as the daisy chain of detonations roars at his back. He picks his face up out of the snow, shaking his head, clumps sliding off the visor leaving wet streaks.

Gets to hands and knees, turns around.

Two friendly markers on HUD. Medic's pinned under the hog, but vitals look fine. Wash's been thrown sideways by the blast. Alive, but hurt. Blood in the—

_blood in the snow_

panic tearing its way up his chest, climbing into his throat.

 

On the open channel, someone else. Not Doc. Not Wash. No marker. But right there. Black armor. Rifle trained on Wash.

Wash is dragging himself upright. Breathing labored. Hurt. Wet coughing over the radio. Scrabbling for his battle rifle, fallen nearby in the snow.

Black boot on his arm.

"You're supposed to be dead," Wash says hoarsely to the black armor.

Him too.

"Don't sound so disappointed. You'll make me cry."

Something short-circuits in his head. Screeches.

_ΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒΒ_

_Stay safe._

_You good?_

_We can't lose her again_ —

 _Everybody just hang on_ —

Felt her go out. Felt them all go out. How—

"Where's the Director?"

"The Director? How would I know that?"

She tsks. "Wrong answer."

Rifle leveled at Wash's face _we have to stop them they'll kill each other_

All the ghosts pulse, the landscape coming apart in layers as he runs, dive-tackles her into the snow.

 

She hits like a fucking train. Still. Remember that.

Rolls to feet, rights himself, charges but she counters his next blow, sends him skidding face first into the snow. Up again and moving, the body of Agent Maine hurls itself into the fight, one fist chasing the other like footsteps, like heartbeats, a few hits, a step and a half of ground gained, then beaten back again. The force and speed of every impact beating down the thing trying to climb up out of the chasm in his chest, the thing that all the ghosts know.

Chasing him like the minigun fire tearing up the ground at his heels, shredding the cold silence, shattering the ice.

Distantly, he hears Wash yelling, "Be more careful—"

_Stay away from the edge._

 

Don't think. _Move._

Don't think about how he knew this place, they all knew this place, layers of memory reverberating over one another, bright and sharp.

And all-out dive at her center of gravity and it should stop him _like hitting a concrete wall_ but it doesn't, she goes down only for a second and then throws him off like that was the point all along. He hits the ground, scrambles to his feet, hears the _click_ blunted by the wind.

Wash's voice. Maybe he's the one calling _run_ maybe it's the ghosts maybe the wind but he runs

and the sky comes down

 

not sky. The wall of ice encasing the black structure in the snow.

Wash at his side, running, capture unit in hand and for a minute they move in tandem, a near-perfect sync before she breaks it with a kick that throws Wash back, the unit flying from his hands, "Meta, take it!" and now it's in his hands, the black box to trap somebody inside. Crashing shards to dodge on all sides, coming down smashing in the snow, blunt pillars and knife-sharp blades of ice, big enough to crush even him. She runs, climbing the piling icefall and they scramble to follow, gain height, stay on top of her, but every blow's deflected, returned doubled.

His feet tear up a tilting pillar of ice, he leaps, the ground drops out from under him, she leaps to meet, clashes halfway. Heavy black armor slams into his body, less weight but equal force _always faster he could never_ and the chasm in his chest tears further open

_stay away from the edge_

she's caught him by the throat grabbed his wrist and twists and flips him onto her shoulder before they land, bending her knees to take the blow and before he can drag the breath back into his lungs she's hurled him back into the air and driven a boot into his ribs that screams pain under the armor

_wash of purple over her ribcage_

_"It's nothing."_

staggering upright again, detonations burst from the snow and the ground shakes beneath them.

Wash in his ear, "Run!"

Cracks opening in the snow, yawning into gray-blue crevices. Run, leap, run, leap, don't slip, don't fall, don't look, the ground tilts and lurches and they're falling away the whole ice shelf collapsing

_What are you doing_

falling like

_no_

the drop in his stomach the sheer cliff looming up

 

a dark shape falls, black against the blue.

He half-hears Wash yelling his name (not his name) as he leaps wildly and half expects to fall but his hands grasp metal and swing and the curved blade stabs into the ice and his helmet smashes facefirst into the ice wall and his shoulder almost yanks out of its socket and he screams his breath out silently and almost wishes he fell.

The blade holds. Don't think. Move.

Something heavy strikes the ice a few feet to his right as he drags himself over the edge, gasping. Turns in time to see Wash run, leap, and grab the cable and climb furiously, hand over hand.

Looks to see her rising out of the snow.

 

Blade's better for up closer. Better for hacking, slashing, tearing apart.

She has her combat knife in hand, and blocks. Shouldn't be able to block his swing but she blocks. Throws a haymaker that staggers him, rattles his jaw and his head loose.

Swings again

_don't let her use your momentum against_ _—_

huffs a soundless scream against his air filter as pain stabs into his shoulder, HUD flashing the warning of an armor breach and the heat of blood on his skin.

He hammers the fire wheel, sending a grenade to her feet. Knocks her back. Knocks him away, blade still embedded in his shoulder, stuck in—not in him. Not that deep. Stuck in the left enhancement slot.

Fucking did that on purpose.

He lunges to where she lies in the snow, getting to her feet, and he feels the arc of motion like in a dream—real and not real, overlaid just slightly out of sync—

his hand around her throat.

 

_no_

_blood in the snow_ and the whole landscape tunneling away and a raw horror seizing up tight at the core of him, the faceless black helmet staring back at him, and all the noise has gone to white, incomprehensible, roaring in his ears

_no_

He can stop it right now. Open his hand. Let her go. Stop it before she falls

_no_

but it's the wrong face.

The wrong helmet.

Staring him down like she knows, she knows, and it's too late.

 

The capture unit shatters the visor into a bloodless void.

Body seems lighter somehow when he throws it aside, empty. It's suddenly quiet. Only distantly he can hear Wash yelling.

 

_It's over._

_Still in the falling snow, three voices lit up like matchsticks in his mind. Flaring, flickering._

_Shoving him under the ice to make room. Filling up the room with their voices._

_A hand around his throat, choking out his voice, his breath._

_No._

_His hands._

_Her face._

_Blood in the snow._

 

His pulse pounds heavy in his temples, whispers reverberating in his ears. The capture unit glows red, hums.

TRANSFER COMPLETE.

Turns it over, pulsing in his hands.

CONTAINMENT PROTOCOLS INITIALIZED.

Everything still in the falling snow. Quiet. Just Wash's voice. The medic. The Blue.

HARDLINE TRANSFER REQUIRED FOR DATA RETRIEVAL.

The enhancement slot has a hardline port. Adaptive camo's busted anyway.

Wash is saying something but he can't follow it. Nothing but static rising in his ears, the horror in his chest breaking all the way open.

Should've let him fall down into the chasm. Should've left him in the box to starve himself out on the floor. Should've killed whatever's left of Agent Maine. Buried him deep.

 

**Α**

_Ah… fuck it._

 

 _What are you doing?_ _…No, no!_

Not his hands. Not his body. Can't be Maine. Can't be _this_ , not alive or dead.

Fuck him. Fuck scared little Andriy and fuck Maine who failed at everything. Who didn't even try to get out. Who failed everyone, Wash, and _her_.

Who still can't even fight for himself.

The ghosts can have him.

He's done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta Larissa, who is actually the Best Person, has read so many drafts of this chapter she practically deserves a byline on it. Thank you, dear. ❤️


	11. Βε

_The Meta remember_

_waking, fury rising in her chest like the cold fog around her_

_staring at her own hands_

_clenching to fists._

 

She comes in swinging.

Oh, what the _fuck_ she snarls. Couldn't leave well enough alone, could you—

She stops, listens to the echoes in the cavernous space. A space stretched to its limits, left battered. Shuttered and empty. Echoing.

God damn it, she mutters, as they vanish.

They wanted a monster. They'll get one.

 

(

back down to dark.

go under. back down under the ice where the edges can't cut, where nothing's real.

where it's cold but it doesn't matter.

)

 

The active camouflage unit isn't in great shape—the power readings are fluctuating already—but it's not hard to run, at least. Stick with that for now. Easy to blur into the snow. Come out firing, a deadly shadow.

The ragged edges of Maine's mind burn at her touch.

Sigma, huh. Destroyed everything he tried to build? Shocker there.

The big guy's out a voice box, but she can make do. Nice choice of heavy weapon. One of those Covie builds. Packs a good punch, from what she's read. Thanks for that. Respect, kiddo.

"I'll try to hold him!"

Washington, right? The pisser? Show him who's supposed to be dead. Good luck with that, dickmunch. Still thinks it's his old buddy driving this bus, too. Boy, that's sad.

Wash is a crack shot, but up close she can toss him around like a rag doll. Without his attack dog to run interference, he stays exposed. Vitals are already bad, too. Blood pressure dropping. Respiration shaky. Gotta love explosives. Quick and dirty.

He puts up a good fight. Grenades just put up a better one. Wash dodges, staggers, drops to his knees in the snow. She moves in. Honestly, it might not be worth keeping him alive. Gamble on the helmet logs instead, if he even knows anything.

Judging by the records underground, if there was one secret the old man could keep, it was himself.

 

"I knew you would do this, Meta—I just can't believe…"

Believe it, asshole.

"I can't believe…"

His visor shifts, slightly, in the falling snow. His gaze focusing on something else.

Something behind her.

"I can't believe it," Wash whispers.

She looks over her shoulder, just as she hears the rumble of aircraft overhead.

Oh, son of a bitch.

 

She dives, rolls, tucks, braces as the rumble of aircraft swells to a roar. The Pelican's crash-land knocks loose another mini-avalanche, mostly snow dislodged from the far side of the gully, though something cracks her hard across the back of the head—ice. Snow comes down heavy on top of her back, enough to pin her and it's a shock, briefly, just how _heavy_. That snow can be so heavy.

His limbs all ache. 'Specially that shoulder. Gotta admit she didn't really think about how tired he would be. Not used to being tired.

Not used to being anything.

Voices coming through, muffled—

 

"I can get her out of there."

"What? No."

"It's my only option."

"I need you, Epsilon, you're my only ticket out of this mess…"

God, fuck both of them.

She groans, shifts under the snow, but the big guy's head is spinning. Must've taken a worse knock than she thought. Maybe hold still for a minute, let it level out.

 

"Allison. Her name was Allison."

_Allison. Nine needlepoints of pain._

Stop. Shut up.

_Allison._

Why does that name make her so fucking angry?

"…a byproduct of the process…"

"She's just a shadow."

" _Don't_ call her that."

For once, she feels the anger in Church's voice resonate. All the way down their spine.

 

_not a shadow_

_stay safe, kiddo_

An echo of something familiar in here.

Makes her shiver.

Makes her wish…

 

"…she's always going to fail…"

In the cold hollow of Maine's mind is a rage she both knows and doesn't. An almost blinding thing, raw and untamed. It rumbles, claws its way out of the deep. Calls to her.

_Finish it._

Okay then. You and me.

She reaches, feels it rise, a shadow grasping with selfish, angry hands. Feels them bleed together where they touch.

_No one can stop us now._

She shifts one shoulder, then the other, and rises from the snow.

 

Who's first? Church? Wash? Does it matter?

Wash moves faster, putting distance between them, firing off a rapid burst from his rifle while palming a grenade from his hip. Church— _Epsilon_ stays close. "Tex—Tex wait—Tex _listen_ I know you're in there—"

His chassis punctured through the torso, pocked where her shot penetrated, and still, he hangs close. Still so afraid to lose.

So she shoots him first, and he yells as the explosion sends him ass over teakettle in the snow. Caught off guard. Still _shocked_ she'd hurt him, and the sheer stupid _innocence_ of it makes her blood boil. Maine's blood, her blood.

Who's the failure now?

Something stirs in Maine's mind, a deep shuddering pain. She does not stop to feel it, or to care.

 

She trades fire with Wash instead, who alternates between short bursts and ducking into cover behind the upended Warthog. Wash brings out feelings, but not hers. She doesn't really know him at all, except for what his files said. He knows her, though, or someone like her, and her element of surprise is good and worn off by now. Wash is keeping his head, sticking to cover and resisting her efforts to draw him out into the open, where one well-placed grenade could launch him right off the cliff. No such luck. He's conserving his ammo, too, and most of his shots land. They don't make it through the overshield—it must've been Maine's, she doesn't remember that enhancement on anyone else—but they land. The shield works, lets her stay in the open where Wash can't, forcing him to keep moving, ducking and circling around the hog.

He gets sick of that soon enough, dives out of cover into a roll that genuinely catches her off-guard, and he's back on his feet in seconds with his combat knife drawn. She drops the shield and rolls the active camo to duck and dodge but Wash's first sweep with the blade comes quick, only scratching the breastplate but landing home just above it, breaching the suit at the upper left chest and drawing blood. A left-handed sweep. Something in the file about Wash being ambidextrous. Have to watch for that.

She throws the camo back up and pulls back a few steps, regrouping. Shouts from across the valley. The idiots are coming to help. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Too many steps back from Wash. Realizes her mistake instantly. Wash peaks at mid-range, and she's just given him the best advantage he could get. The camo's still running, but Wash must see the shimmer, because his gaze locks with hers as surely as if he was staring right into her eyes.

_C'mon, Maine, there are rules here._

The knife whistles in the frigid air, red flashing against white for a dazzling instant and the blade plunges into his chest.

Funny, the sensation of falling. She didn't expect that. Feet still on the ground, but the sudden lightness in their head. Like falling into the sky.

Stay with me, she snarls.

He groans, faintly, but that's all.

 

But Wash is out of cover now. And he's not doing well. He's a good fighter, and tougher than she expected, but he's been running on adrenaline. In the quick slip of time before the grenade jolts from the barrel of the Brute shot, she can hear him wheeze quietly into his radio, the only tell—but she hears it. He's hurting, bad.

The blast sends him backward into the hog, with such force his armor dents the door.

 

"Yeah!"

"Get him!"

"We're gonna fuckin' die!"

Harder, though, to dodge a colorful firing squad of automatic rounds and sticky grenades. Even if they do have shitty aim. There's a lot of them. Someone's going to hit purely by luck.

And goddamn, does she ever hate luck.

Next to the time distortion unit, the domed energy shield is probably the diciest of the enhancements Maine's packing. Makes sense that she hasn't seen him use it. The HUD flashes power warnings, but she can do the calculations, at least. She can modulate the frequency. Can keep it up. Heh.

The shield deploys. The volley of grenades and bullets bounce uselessly off the hardlight surface, shimmering bright all around her. It's a good mod. Too bad it fences you in, and takes so much energy to run.

Hold it… hold it… hold…

She waits for Maroon to reload. The one with the rocket launcher. Rest she can hold off. She's in the air by the time he fires, misses, and it takes only the few seconds of the jump to swing the weapon up and then she lands hard almost on top of him, the long curved blade wedging between the rocket launcher's barrels and cleaving them apart.

Then Teal comes at her with the energy sword.

She manages to block his first couple of swipes. Those swords are nasty—you gotta block the hilt, or better yet the arm, because that energy blade will sear right through titanium composite armor plating and take your arm off.

Orange takes a flying leap at her from behind, hollering and locking on with arms and legs. She almost laughs. Not bad. Dude's got some balls to bust after all. She shakes him off, knocks aside the barrel of the sergeant's shotgun, lays him out with a haymaker, grabs him by the ankle and swings him for momentum before letting fly in the general direction of the cliff.

That's when Teal get her.

She almost doesn't feel it. At first. Energy weapons'll do that—well, so she's heard. So she remembers, in a way not her own. Instant cauterization, kills the nerves, sometimes not even any blood.

The next breath she draws, with the bright white blade still impaled in the left side of his torso—that's when the pain comes. A bright, merciless burn.

In their mind, he's screaming. The sound can't get past his ruined vocal cords. Agony hisses through the scar tissue, rattles, a ragged growl, but no words.

 

Hands scrabble for the hilt, deactivate the blade, and the sword falls into the snow, melting an imprint around it. Not sure if that was even her. Might've taken his hands back, of his own volition. Or pure instinct. She throws up the overshield instead, the hum permeating their skin, a thin distraction from the searing pain of every breath. Barely grazed the lung, from what she can feel, but there are sparks flying from the the back of their armor now, the fucking sword got them straight through the power supply, and the readings are sputtering on the HUD and Maine's ragged consciousness is still twisting in pain.

Breathe, Maine. I can take them. Just _breathe._

 

( just let me die )

 

God damn it, you can feel sorry for yourself later. Just keep moving—

_Boom._

A shotgun shell bursts, splinters, fragments away against the overshield.

"C'mere, you big son of a bitch!"

_Boom._

SHIELD INTEGRITY AT 89%.

_Boom._

It'll take nothing to disarm him. Just get to him—

But Sarge is closing in faster than Maine can move. _Boom. Boom._ SHIELD INTEGRITY AT 77% and it's gonna take him a while to wear them down at that rate but he's point blank now, barrel aimed at the throat and they drag in an agonizing breath and raise a hand to knock it away and he's too close, he's made a mistake, they have him by the throat.

"Hey Grif," the sergeant chokes out, throat rippling beneath the black mesh under their palm, "I've lost my shotgun!"

_Finish him._

"What am I gonna do without—my shotgun—"

She squints.

"Shotgun, damn it!"

Somewhere in her peripheral vision, Orange and Maroon are on the move.

 

"Hey Meta," Sarge grunts, squirming, "settle a bet for me would you—does that thing kinda look like a big cat to you?"

And Maine looks.

_Maine looks._

Tex is pretty sure she didn't fucking look.

If she was more used to the heft and weight and meat of this body, she would've felt it immediately—the big metal hook from the hog's cable winch that Sarge has, very casually, wedged over the top edge of their breastplate.

Maine's limbs go heavy heavy heavy

 

Wake up! God damn it you big lug you want to go out like _this?_ Are you _listening_ to me?

( … )

I didn't ask to come back, but I'm sure as hell not going out until I'm ready. You hear me?

( … )

So it's gonna be like that then. Fine.

 

The hog plunges off the edge and in the time it takes for the line to snap taut, Tex has time to assess her options.

Time to cash out.

She rolls. Jars the capture unit hanging lopsided on his back, draws back out of the neural lace, out of the armor, into the box, leaving the hollow cavern of Maine's mind behind, just before the unit jars loose and the connection breaks.

So long, cockbite.


	12. ∅

**Β**

_I'm sorry, kiddo. This is all I got._

_I failed her. I’d like to say I would’ve done anything to save her, but… I didn’t. I could have and I didn’t until it was too late._

_I'm so sorry. But I swore I wouldn't fail you, too. She'd never forgive me. I mean, she wouldn't anyway. But especially not for that._

_You're gonna make it out of this. Hang on. Just hang on._

 

_The Meta remember loving a man called Maine, a man who towered even on his knees. A man whose head bowed willingly before her. How she loved the curve of his neck, the slope of his shoulder muscles and the bulk of his biceps anchored against his body with his arms folded behind his back. His eyes were brown. She held his gaze and stared deep deep into them and they widened with wonder so wide she shivered. She let him duck his head away and bent to kiss his forehead. Such a beautiful man._

 

Hands aren't his hands

scraping, clawing, grasping in the snow, grabbing hold of whatever they can reach—icefall, uneven ground, an orange ankle.

Grasping and slipping loose in the snow.

Turns out no matter how much your mind wants to die, your body doesn't go quiet.

 

_The Meta remember pushing him through training sessions where he made faces at her, sometimes a good-natured groan. Agility exercises, making him repeat the moves again, again, again, until he got it right, until even his movements took on a quickness and a lightness that wasn't there before. Remember the way his eyes changed when he got it, when he felt his body move in a way it hadn't before, learned to do something he never thought he could. Remember smirking up at him from the floor on the rare occasion he managed to pin her. More often, looking down at him, grinning through red bangs falling in her face._

 

He remembers, with a few seconds' delay, the sudden yank of the cable, being slammed on his back in the snow, skull throbbing as his helmet bounced off the ice beneath. Remembering. Not happening right now. Dragged through the snow. Happened fast.

The ground slips out from under him, and everything slows down.

 

For a split second it's just the sky. Silver-white above, almost still. A few soft flakes. The snow that fell heavy when they arrived has receded to something light, lazy. Tiny sparks, almost invisible, drifting, not so eager to fall.

Then his stomach drops.

 

_The Meta remember him coming to the mess in the morning, side by side with Wash who though smaller kept up with him stride for stride. How they exchanged quick looks most people would miss, a raised eyebrow, a tilt of the head, a lopsided smile. How one could make a face and the other laugh at something known only to them. Remember watching them and hiding a smile as she turned to fill her coffee mug._

 

It takes a while. Longer than you think. The planet's weak gravity doesn't quite explain how slow it feels. How much like he's watching from outside himself, watching his body fall. The sickening sensation of it both real and not real. His and not his.

And it's so silent.

 

The crash is so sharp, a harsh smack that sends jagged spikes of pain through his body, that he doesn't realize until he starts to sink.

Water.

Little needles of ice on his skin.

WARNING: SEAL BREACHED. SUIT INTEGRITY COMPROMISED.

 

_The Meta remember loving him in force and speed and impact, in quick looks and unspoken words, in passing in the corridors and shared laughs behind closed doors._

_In his breadth and weight at her back._

_In his breath on her skin._

_In the silent ache as she spiraled, as they drifted._

_Remember._

 

With cold comes clarity. Crystalline, icy. Quiet.

No ghosts anymore. No layers, memories splitting apart in pieces. Only the cold. Only now.

He blinks away the HUD warnings, silencing them, shutting down every readout, going dark.

 

The cold seeps into his chest on the right side first, icy fingers reaching into his breached undersuit where the knife struck. Slower on the left, little needles of cold against his ribs. Coming for his skin, his heart, his lungs. The body of a dead man. Take it.

He opens his eyes, stares up through the water. Sinking fast, everything above a wavery gray. Little shapes twist and break, points of light break through for moments and vanish. The distant sky, only a shadow now.

In silence and shadow and cold, he remembers. With a clarity so sharp it slides right through him like a double-pronged blade of light, searing and bloodless and still unbearable. He remembers. He never really forgot. But there's nothing to hold it back now.

Her hands on his skin, as clear as his hands around her throat.

The bright snap of her eyes.

A long arc of aquamarine through the white air.

Blood in the snow.

He sinks, and doesn't say no.

He remembers.

 

The cold creeps in faster as he sinks, muscles starting to seize and shiver violently. Cramping, pain and shuddering but it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, it's over. He's done.

Breath ragged and sharp. Stop and start.

Cold and pressure, embracing him from all sides, tight and unyielding, even when he feels his limbs thrash beyond his control. Faintly he feels the tightness in his chest, the line still locked into him going taut.

Drifting, he closes his eyes.

 

END OF PART 2

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to hear from you about what you think of the story so far.
> 
> Part 3 is now posting, with a new chapter every Friday! You can follow me on tumblr at [anneapocalypse](http://anneapocalypse.tumblr.com) where I talk about RvB and writing progress a lot, or at [annefiction](http://annefiction.tumblr.com) if you just want to see when I've posted new fic.
> 
> See you when we land.
> 
>  **Special Thanks** :
> 
> Thanks to [RoosterTooths.com](http://roostertooths.com/), where I've spent so many hours poring over dialogue for voice study and canon review.
> 
> Many thanks to all the folks in the RvB writer chats for putting up with my endless thinking out loud about this project. And thanks to [Martienne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/martienne) for countless time spent tossing writing thoughts back and forth, and whose perspectives on the Director and the Church family generally have certainly influenced me.
> 
> Deepest thanks to my dear friend [Larissa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/larissa), who has been with me every step of the way since I began this trilogy, listening and encouraging and beta reading multiple drafts and providing thoughtful and insightful commentary. Her perspective on Wash, in particular, has influenced me a great deal. This fic would certainly not be what it is without her. Thank you for everything. I love you.
> 
> And thanks to everyone who has kudosed and commented thus far. You all mean the world to me.


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